


What No One Else Sees

by Aggie2011



Series: Vantage Point Universe [8]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Gen, No Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-16
Updated: 2013-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-20 10:12:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 110,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/886046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aggie2011/pseuds/Aggie2011
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Natasha Romanoff had looked down the length of her assassin's arrow and known it was over - her life was going to end. But then he'd paused, something had flashed over his eyes, and he'd lowered the arrow. Clint Barton had been sent to kill her - he made a different call. (Pre-Avengers, NO SLASH, Vantage Point Universe)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prison Gates Won't Open Up For Me

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> Here's my next installement to my Avengers Universe I've created. This is the story of how Clint met Natasha :) I'll really try to update daily - this story is completed so I SHOULD be able to...if only my memory cooperated...
> 
> Enjoy!

  
_Self-sacrifice is the real miracle out of which all the reported miracles grow.  
_ **_Ralph Waldo Emerson_ **  


* * *

Clint slowly blew out a breath, his eyes scanning over the scattered targets throughout the combat area of the range. He rolled his shoulders, feeling the satisfying and familiar weight of his quiver against his back, heavy with the weight of a dozen arrows. He adjusted the fingers of his right hand on his bow – the fingers of his left twitching in anticipation at his side.

Twelve targets. Twelve arrows.

The first and last targets were the same – a specially-designed timer mounted on the wall. It was activated by the impact of an arrow on the one-by-one-inch pad below the digital readout and deactivated in the same way.

He drew in another deep breath and blew it out. It had been three days since Phil gave him his bow back, since he'd been cleared back to active duty. After four months of uncertainty – of not knowing if he would ever do this again – Clint wanted to enjoy every second of it. He wanted to embrace every thump of his heart, every bead of sweat on his forehead, every ache in his muscles as he pushed himself harder and faster, eager to get back to the level he was at before Croatia. Before he'd stepped in front of a bullet and nearly lost his ability to fire his bow. Before he'd saved Phil's life…

_Saved Phil._

That's all that mattered in the end – bow or no bow. And he'd do it again in a second.

The song coming through his earbuds faded out and he shifted, raising his left hand slightly in anticipation.

The iPod went momentarily silent as it changed tracks. He moved when the first guitar notes of AC/DC's  _Thunderstruck_  started blasting through his earbuds. His left hand had an arrow pulled and nocked in a breath, and even as it sailed towards the timer to start the round, he was already looking to the next target, already nocking another arrow. Before he even released that arrow on its flight, he was already tracking down a new target with his eyes.

He continued in this same flawless, lightning-quick pattern until he had only one arrow left. He was across the combat area now – the timer at an impossible angle. His brain whirred through the calculations even as he pulled back on the string, aimed, and fired. There was a slight  _twang_  as the arrow hit the corner of a pillar and abruptly changed trajectory. A half a beat later he heard the timer beep – the signal that it had stopped.

Clint allowed himself a smirk. He was still  _that_  good. He started jogging around, collecting his arrows, pulling the two from the timer last. He smiled in pride as he realized he'd beat his time from the last round he'd done. He had hope that soon he'd be matching his old time – the time from before Croatia.

"Clint."

He turned at Coulson's voice. He'd felt his handler watching him for the past fifteen minutes, knew Phil had probably come with a purpose in mind but had ended up watching silently instead.

Phil was standing in the doorway, phone in one hand, a file in the other.

"Briefing Room Two – you've got an assignment."

Clint couldn't help the wide smile that broke across his face.  _Finally_. He'd only been back on active duty for three days, but he was  _itching_  to get back in the game. He jogged toward Phil enthusiastically, not bothering to fold his bow and stow it. He had missed the feeling of it in his hand too much to put it away when he didn't have to.

"What's the assignment?" he asked as Phil moved out into the hallway.

"Fury's doing the briefing, not me. Come on." Phil motioned him to follow and he did. Phil held out an icepack and the look in his eyes demanded Clint take it without complaint. Too excited about finally getting back into the action to make any waves, Clint accepted it without protest. He shifted his bow to his left hand and used his right to press the ice pack to his recovering shoulder.

Briefing Room Two came into view and Phil held the door so Clint could walk in ahead of him. They took their usual seats and Clint leaned over, looking down to the floor as he propped his bow against the next chair – making sure it wasn't going to trip his own chair up if he moved.

"Barton."

Fury was saying his name even as he blew the through the door. The sound of a file slapping onto the wood surface of the table had him looking up just in time to catch it before it slid into his lap. He arched a scolding eyebrow mockingly at Fury and adjusted the ice pack on his shoulder.

Next to him, Phil's lips quirked in silent amusement and it had Clint's own smirk widening.

"What's the job?" he directed the question at Fury, not bothering to open the file yet.

"A protection detail, in Paris. Welcome back to the rotation."

Clint's eyebrow quirked in interest.  _A protection detail._  That was different.

"I thought my job was the other end of that kind of situation."

"That's why you're the man I need on this."

Fury nodded at Clint's file and he obediently flipped it open. Fury looked a little surprised that he didn't even offer a token protest but Clint couldn't bring himself to be his usual pain-in-the-ass self right now. Not after four months. Not when he would take whatever assignment they gave him as long as it was an assignment. Clint could be absolutely still for hours on end – but he was made to be on the move. To be  _doing_ something.

"Henri Moreau . He's been very outspoken on his opinions about the current hostilities between Lebanon and Israel. As a member of the UN Security Council, his opinion has drawn some attention. SHIELD sources in the Security Council tell me that the Lebanon War – that started just three days ago – is already a topic of discussion. We got word this morning that a contract was put out Moreau – no doubt in hopes to sway the Security Council's decision."

"What makes you think that?"

"Our resources say the contract is Israeli in origin."

Clint nodded, studying the picture of Henri Moreau. He looked to be in his mid to late fifties – hair graying. There were slight lines spreading from the corners of his eyes and similar ones creasing his forehead.

"So what's my gig? Bodyguard? For how long?"

"As long as it takes – we obviously have no solid intelligence on  _when_  someone will try to fulfill that contract."

Clint flipped through the file, pausing on a copy of Moreau's itinerary.

"He's going to a fundraising gala on the 21st," Clint noticed.

Fury waited.

"If it were me, that's when I'd do it. He'll be in the open – there are a lot of other important people present. Even if I had to get close, it would be easy to blend into the crowd."

Coulson nodded, as if he'd known Clint would come to that conclusion.

"Then you'll be there too, running Moreau's security," Fury instructed.

Clint made a face.

"A gala, huh?"

"Yes, Agent Barton, a gala."

Clint sighed and flipped his file closed – to be studied and memorized later.

He hated formal parties.

"What's my objective?" he asked, reaching for the ice he'd discarded on the table and returning it to his shoulder.

"Best case – you'll be able to figure out what angle the assassin will come from and head them off at the pass. Worst case – you stick with him until the Security Council resolves the issue in Lebanon."

Clint nodded, starting to understand why he was being assigned this detail.

"Ultimately, Clint, you have the best shot of any SHIELD agent at spotting an assassin before they can make their move," Phil explained.

Clint's lips quirked.

" _AND_  this is my first assignment back so you guys don't want to give me anything too strenuous."

Fury's expression didn't change, but Phil's lips quirked. Quirked like he wasn't surprised at all that Clint had deduced that – and like he wasn't ashamed to admit it was true. Clint rolled his eyes. He'd done exactly one protection detail in his tenure at SHIELD – and THAT had been a cover for an assassination.

"Get yourself cleared by medical and on a plane in the morning."

Clint rolled his eyes again at the mention of SHIELD's protocol about bullet wounds. It was a protocol he was becoming painfully familiar with – even after being cleared to active duty, any agent who had taken a bullet had to be cleared before leaving for a mission for six months following the initial injury.

"Agent Coulson will be serving as operational support on location."

Clint nodded, Fury mirrored the movement and then strode out of the room. Clint looked to Phil, eyebrow arched in question.

"It's not that we don't think you can handle a protection detail."

Clint's eyebrow arched higher and Phil sighed.

"It's  _not_."

Clint shot him a doubtful look as he stood. A protection detail wasn't exactly an  _easy_  assignment, but neither was it something that would be any real challenge – it was definitely something he didn't need operational support on location for.

Phil could deny it all he wanted, but Clint knew worry when he saw it. And he'd seen it enough on Phil in the three years they'd known each other to recognize it now.

Clint couldn't blame him. After everything that had happened in the past four months, he would allow Phil his protective streak without complaint.

It was oddly comforting in its own way to know Phil – and even Fury – cared enough to worry.

* * *

"You should really start a new series – how many times have you read these?" Phil turned Clint's well- worn copy of  _Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers_ in his hands.

"I'm on my fifth." Clint snatched the book back and tossed it back into his bag, following it with  _Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King._  "What does it matter?"

"I'm just saying – you've read the  _Lord of the Rings_  series nearly five times. You've read through the Harry Potters twice already. Might be time for something new."

"Then find me something new," Clint challenged with a smirk.

Phil rolled his eyes, but started running through series options in his head. He'd try to track something that would hold Clint's interest when they got back from France. He opened his mouth to ask if Clint would consider reading something not out of a series but the words were forestalled by a knock at the door.

"What?" Clint demanded of whoever was on the other side of his bedroom door.

Phil gave him a glare for the rudeness and moved to open the door himself. Todd Bryan was arching an eyebrow on the other side.

"Todd," Phil greeted, stepping aside so the lead trainer could step into the room.

"You always bark at people when they visit?" Todd asked with a grin as he watched Clint stuff various articles of clothing into his bag.

"Only you, Bryan."

"Then I feel special." Todd smirked sarcastically. "I heard you caught an assignment, and I've got a favor to ask before you go."

"What's that?" Clint asked as he started digging through the sheets on his bed. He produced his iPod a moment later with a triumphant look in his eyes.

"Show my snot-nosed newbie recruits a thing or two on the parkour course. I've got a handful that think they're something special. Now that you're all healed up, I figure you're itching to start shaving off your time anyway. There's that thing about killing birds, so I figured, what the hell? I'd ask."

Clint glanced at Phil, not quite asking permission, but looking for an opinion. The handler almost hesitated. They had a mountain of prep work to do. Clint needed to get in to see Dan. Sleep was going to be necessary at some point, and it was already nearly dinner time. But he could see the excitement in Clint's eyes – the hope that Phil wouldn't find a reason to say it was a bad idea.

So he dipped his chin – Clint grinned.

"Sure," the archer turned to Todd and tossed his iPod into his open duffle on his bed. "I love teaching the new kids a thing or two."

Todd laughed and Phil rolled his eyes with a smile.

Never mind that Clint was probably younger than – or at least the same age as –  _all_  of the new recruits. He supposed Clint was sort of right – the new guys  _were_  "kids" to SHIELD in comparison to Clint – who was three years into an already-impressive tenure with the organization and was only  _barely_  twenty one.

* * *

"Who's  _that_  guy?" Shane Connors whispered to his friend Jared Mathews as they stood with the rest of the recruits and watched Agent Bryan walk towards them with two other men. One he knew was Agent Coulson – Director Fury's right-hand man. The second man was young – younger than them. Connors thought he remembered seeing the guy around the base the past few months, but he wasn't sure.

"Dunno." Mathews shrugged, eying the parkour course impatiently. He had the best time so far in their group, and there was only one course time faster, some guy named Barton. Mathews was sure the time was faked – no one could do this course  _that_  fast.

"Recruits! Pop tall!" Agent Bryan barked. Immediately all of the recruits straightened to attention. "You've had that record," he pointed at the letters and numbers burned into the wood of the tall arch that marked the starting line of the course – 'Barton, 2:19', "challenging you from the moment you stepped foot on this training field."

The young man standing with Agent Coulson glanced at the name and time on the course and smirked.

"I thought it was about time you saw the man himself in action.  _This_ ," he motioned at the young man, "is Agent Clint Barton." Most of the recruits seemed unmoved by the announcement. "Some of you may know him better as Hawkeye."

Eyes across the entire group widened and a few jaws went slack. Connors gaped – Mathews glared. The name Clint Barton may not be on everybody's tongue at SHIELD, but the code name Hawkeye sure as hell was – especially after the rumors that the famous marksman was almost put out of the game by an unlucky round from an automatic rifle.

Clint "Hawkeye" Barton didn't look like someone who had almost been put out of the game – at least not to Connors. He looked fit, healthy, and…keyed up. Connors suddenly realized that they – all of them – were outclassed. And he couldn't help but feel a little bitter – because Barton was nothing but a kid.

Beside him, Mathews scowled. This was the guy that held the course record? He was a fucking  _kid_. Mathews was suddenly itching to show everyone the famous Hawkeye wasn't all he was cracked up to be.

Clint stepped up to the starting line and started carefully warming up his shoulders. He did his best to ignore the fifteen men watching him like they  _wanted_ him to fail.

Coulson stepped up next to him.

"I know," Clint shot him a look. "Be careful."

"I know you've been itching to get back out here – just don't push it."

Clint rolled his eyes – in what was a more affectionate fashion than anything else – and started stretching out his arms, legs, and shoulders.

"Me? Push it?" Clint shot him an innocent grin that was, in reality, anything but innocent. "I would never."

Coulson rolled his eyes in what Clint  _knew_  was an affectionate fashion and stepped back.

Clint rolled his shoulders, and then his neck, and dropped into his ready stance. He looked to Agent Bryan, who winked and held up his stopwatch.

"Ready?"

Clint nodded once.

"Go!"

Clint exploded off the starting line, eying the first obstacle – a concrete half wall followed by a full brick wall.

His mind cleared. His focus sharpened. Even as he planted his hands on the top of the half wall and vaulted himself up to plant his feet between his hands, he was already looking to the brick wall that came next. He exploded off the concrete, hooking his hands on the top of the brick wall and digging his feet into the brick. He hung there for half a breath, fingers digging into the top of the brick, knees bent and feet pressed against the vertical surface. But then he was springing upwards, planting his feet on the top of the wall and jumping forward.

After that, it was all instinct. He hadn't done this course in four months – but he didn't so easily forget things, even things he'd only done a few times, even after four months. His path through the course was instinctive – both based off what he'd done before, what he could see before him, and what he knew was coming.

Goddamnit, he loved this.

He loved exploding into jumps, using momentum and well-placed hands and feet to feel like he was defying gravity – defying physics. So many parts of his life were ruled by physics. His bow could only fire as well as it was built to. His arrows could only fly as physics allowed them too – even if Clint  _could_  push those rules a little more than anybody else. But parkour – free running – this was something he could do and  _feel_  like he was breaking all the rules.

Clint had always liked breaking rules.

In some vague part of his mind, he noticed the herd of recruits jogging alongside the course – watching him. He sensed Phil and Bryan as well – eyes pinned on him with a measure of worry. It didn't rankle him like it would have four months ago. Nearly dying – nearly losing the ability to use his arm – had brought some things into perspective.

He had people that cared about him, people that worried. He would have assumed once – that the worry was because they didn't think he could do his job. It would have been an annoyance – even insulting.

He knew now – as they watched him all but fly through the course – that wasn't what it was about. It was  _him_  they worried about, not the job. Whether he thought their priorities were in the right place or not was neither here nor there. But those were  _their_ priorities, not his, and he would let them have them in whatever order they wanted them.

Yeah, things were definitely in a different perspective now.

Speaking of different perspectives, he'd learned – after several failures to meet his previous standards over the last four months – that it was going to take time to get back to where he'd been physically before Croatia.

It didn't mean he wasn't annoyed that he wasn't going to beat his old time on the course though. He was a competitor by nature, even if he usually competed against himself.

So even as he was running across the final rooftop, he knew his time wasn't going to beat his current record – wasn't even going to match it. He leapt from the edge of the rooftop, flipped acrobatically and landed on top of the final wall. All that was left was the scaffolding.

He caught his hands on crossed bars – threading his body through the narrow opening into the heart of the structure. It was probably the most difficult entry point into the scaffolding, but it also fed into the fastest route through.

He hooked his legs around the next set of crossed bars, letting gravity pull him down and flip him beneath the bars. Momentum carried up and he reached his arms up to catch the next X.

His shoulder chose that moment to protest.

He didn't know what it was about the angle he'd moved the joint in – if he'd done it too fast or just in a different way than usual – but it hurt – _bad_. He was vaguely used to it – he'd learned as his arm healed that moving it the exact wrong way would bring these shots of pain. Dan and his physical therapist, Rachel, had assured him that his shoulder had healed well, but that sometimes he just might tweak it the wrong way and when he did it would hurt. It might fade over time, it might not.

There was no way to "predict" it. He was really starting to hate that phrase. It had ruled his recovery and rehab. Privately, Clint had predicted the hell out of his recovery. He had determined that he  _would_  recover – one way or another – and to hell with what anyone else could "predict."

All his predictions hadn't kept him from reaching in the exact wrong way that would make his shoulder tweak as he latched onto the final set of bars.

His shoulder protested so painfully that his left hand lost its grip and his final move – propelling his body through the final opening – didn't quite happen as he'd hoped.

He still made it through the opening, but his body twisted. Instead of hitting the ground facing forwards and being able to tuck into an easy roll over the finish line, he landed with his body still turning, promptly ending up rolling  _backwards_  over his left shoulder. He barely managed to recover enough to come to his feet after the roll – though his steps stumbled until he caught his balance.

"Son of a bitch."

"You all right?" Phil asked with forced casualness as he and Bryan approached. Clint blew out a frustrated breath and nodded.

"Time?"

"2:48," Bryan announced. "Still faster than the fastest of the brood over there."

Clint sighed. He'd expected his time to be slower – but it still annoyed him. He carefully stretched out his shoulder, wincing minutely at the ache that was threatening to settle in. It was no worse than when he tweaked it when he stretched the wrong way. The pain was already fading away and he rotated his shoulder to speed the process.

"And that's how this course is done, rug rats," Todd turned and announced to the team of recruits.

Mathews frowned. His best time was only 3:02. It looked like Barton had fumbled the exit of the course too – tweaked something in his arm. He had the sudden urge to prove he was just as good at this as the famous  _Hawkeye._

"I want to race him!" Mathews challenged suddenly. "I bet I can beat him through the course."

Next to him, Connor's eyes widened.

Agent Bryan smirked as if some part of him had been  _hoping_  the ass-wipe Jared Mathews would do something like this.

"You sure you want to do that, Mathews?" he offered as a token protest, with no real enthusiasm behind the words.

"I'm sure." Mathews glared across the short distance to Clint, who just arched an eyebrow.

He shot a glance at Phil, who tilted his head a little in acquiescence. Then he shrugged.

"What the hell – why not?"

Clint rolled his eyes a little at the premature triumph on Mathews' face. Something told him he was going to enjoy knocking this guy down a peg – or five – if the opportunity presented itself.

The entire group walked back to the finish again and Bryan stood in front of Mathews and Clint at the starting line.

"Okay, this is a head-to-head, no interfering with each other. If one of you gets to a certain point first, the other either chooses a different route or waits. Got it?"

Clint inclined his head slightly and Mathews nodded.

"All right. Get set."

They both dropped down into ready stances. Agent Bryan stepped out of the way.

"Go!"

Clint exploded off the starting line, a surge of adrenaline rushing through him. He loved competition. He didn't get to compete with agents besides Phil and Bryan often – hadn't since he got pulled from general training a year and a half ago. So this?  _This_  was going to be fun.

His consciousness focused once again – the rest of the world and even Mathews fading to the background. He remained aware of everything though – in the back of his mind. Though he was unconcerned about the other man's position in the course, he still knew  _exactly_  where he was the entire time. In a profession like his, he  _had_  to be aware of everything going on around him – of  _everyone_  around him – without letting it distract him from what he was doing.

Clint admitted, as they neared the end of the course, that Mathews wasn't bad. He wasn't exactly keeping pace with Clint – he was dropping behind by fractions of a second at every obstacle – but he was managing to stay relatively close.

Clint hit the final rooftop first – kicked it into high gear and was leaping to the final wall just as Mathews hit the rooftop. Clint jumped from the wall, catching his hands on the first set of crossed bars. He felt his shoulder tweak immediately.

He ground out a groan and aborted his usual route through the scaffolding. Ache settled across his shoulder and for the half a second it took him to decide on a new route, he just clung to the bars like a monkey, knees bent and boots braced on the bars below him.

Clint swung into motion just as Mathews scrambled over the top of the final wall. He pulled himself up, braced his feet where his hands had originally clung and exploded upward. He climbed up the face of the scaffolding with an ease born of years of acrobat training and a lifetime of climbing anything and everything that he could. He came to a rest at the top.

He saw Mathews launch himself into the scaffolding, but he moved slowly, carefully. Clint looked out over the top of the structure. There were bars he could use, their purpose to hold the scaffolding together.

He smirked and ran – his balance perfect on the thin metal pole. This was nothing compared to the tight rope he'd learned to walk when he was twelve. The only hitch in his plan was going to be jumping from about twenty feet instead of the normal ten.

He could do it – easily. Whether or not his shoulder would appreciate the force with which he'd be rolling over it was a different matter. When the end of the scaffolding came, he didn't have time to hesitate.

He just jumped and the ground rushed to greet him. The key was the landing. He bent his knees to absorb some of the force and threw himself forward and over his shoulder. He came to his feet with still more momentum than he wanted and had to jog a step to slow himself down. He turned in time to see Mathews swinging from the last section of bars and climbing through to the ground.

Bryan stepped up next to him. Clint arched an eyebrow in question.

"2:51."

"Goddamned shoulder tweaked when I hit the scaffolding – I lost time there."

"You good?" Phil asked carefully.

Clint nodded, watching Mathews scowl at him as he joined the rest of the recruits.

"Nice effort, Mathews," Bryan placated. Mathews' scowl deepened.

"I want to race him again."

"Getting your ass kicked once is enough for now. I'm sure Barton won't mind doing it again at a later date. He's got a mission to prep for." Bryan clapped Clint on the right shoulder and gave him a grin. He continued more quietly, so the recruits wouldn't over hear. "I've been  _waiting_  for you to come put that kid in his place."

"Glad I could oblige." Clint grinned.

"You take care of that shoulder and be careful in France, okay?"

Clint nodded and looked to Phil, who was had already started moving towards the base.

"You've got to go see Dan before dinner."

Clint sighed. He liked Dan – he really did – but he was  _so_  sick of the infirmary. He followed Phil towards the base, trying to decide if he was going to lie about the ache that had settled in his shoulder.

* * *

Dan looked up from his data pad when Barton and Phil walked into the infirmary.

"I was expecting you two earlier." His smile of greeting took any real heat out of the words.

"Todd invited him to show up some recruits on the parkour course," Phil explained.

Dan's smile widened into a full-fledged smirk, though a touch of concern clouded his eyes.

"Bet you showed them a thing or two."

Barton smirked in return and moved to sit on the exam table without complaint.

"I'll leave you two to it." Phil met Barton's eyes. "Meet you in the mess in thirty?"

Barton nodded and Phil left, already answering his ringing cell phone.

"How was your time?" Dan asked as he motioned for Barton to take his shirt off. Barton obliged even as he answered.

"Slow."

Dan rolled his eyes as he stood from his rolling chair and moved to inspect Barton's shoulder. Slow for Barton was probably still faster than anyone else.

"Slow for you? Or slow for the rest of the world – there  _is_  a difference I'm told."

Barton smirked arrogantly and it made Dan smile – he  _had_ been hoping for it after all. After four months of watching Barton struggle through rehab – face the true reality of the damage done to his shoulder – it was high time the kid had something to brag about.

"Rotate for me."

Barton obediently started moving his shoulder this way and that. Dan kept one hand on the front of Barton's shoulder, resting over the thick scar from surgery, and used the other to guide the archer's arm in the direction he wanted it to go.

"You've got some inflammation – and a little heat. You tweak it?"

Barton nodded.

"Same motion as usual cause it?"

Barton nodded again. Dan sighed.

"How's it feel now?"

"Aches a little."

Dan nodded. If Barton was admitting to anything at all, then he had to be telling the truth. While he may have a tendency to lie like a criminal to hide an injury all together, he rarely – when he admitted to injury – lied about severity. It was an odd little paradox but Dan appreciated it in moments like this – when it was working in his favor.

"You know the drill – ice it and rest it for the night."

Barton nodded.

Dan picked his shirt up from the table and handed it back to him.

"Look, kid…" Dan hesitated. Barton was so hard to predict sometimes. Some days he would take words of concern and caution with a small nod and an appreciative look in his eyes. Sometimes he leveled a frustrated glare for being told something he already knew.

Dan likened it to a game of Russian Roulette. Either the gun fired empty or he got a bullet to the brain. A dramatic comparison maybe, but he needed a taste of Barton's attitude like he needed a bullet to the brain.

He'd rather do without it.

He gauged Barton's eyes when he looked at him. He looked agreeable enough, but then again, Barton always  _looked_  agreeable – until he wasn't.

"I know I green-lighted you to return to the roster, but you're still healing. And you'll  _be_  healing for a while. Just be careful, okay?"

"Relax, Doc, I'm always careful."

Dan arched an eyebrow doubtfully. Barton grinned and rolled his eyes.

"Okay, so I'm  _mostly_  careful…sometimes."

It was Dan's turn to roll his eyes. He watched Barton jerk his t-shirt over his head and then gripped his right shoulder.

"I mean it, kid. Take care of yourself and take care of that shoulder. Do your stretches, ice it if it aches, and don't push it if you don't have to."

Barton dipped his head in acknowledgment and granted Dan a short, but appreciative glance as he stood and headed to the door.

Dan smiled as he signed off on Barton's chart. Looked like the gun had clicked empty. He could sit back and relax now until he had to pull the trigger again.

* * *

End of Chapter One

And here we go! Next story finally up and running :) This one is LONG and full of a lot of awesome things (at least I think they're awesome lol) I hope everyone enjoys reading as much as I enjoyed writing.

Get ready for a fun ride!

Here's your preview of Chapter 2

* * *

_The archer came awake with a gasp, jack-knifing and grasping at his left arm, now resting limply across his lap. His breathing hit a new level of frantic – near hyperventilation – and Phil reached forward to grasp his shoulder._

_"Clint! Hey, easy! What's wrong?"_

_Clint's right hand was suddenly in a vice grip around Phil's forearm – tight enough that he was certain it would leave a bruise._

_"I can't…" Clint forced a strained inhalation, eyes squeezing closed. "I can't feel my left arm."_


	2. I'm Terrified Of These Four Walls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> As always - greatest thanks to my beta and very good friend Kylen. Check the end of the chapter for a special shout out to her - can't do it now because it would give part of the chapter away! :D
> 
> Enjoy!

  
_I think that the good and the great are only separated by the willingness to sacrifice._   
**_Kareem Abdul-Jabbar_ **   


* * *

Phil held back a yawn as he walked into the hangar at three thirty in the morning. He hadn't really slept. Instead, he'd spent the better part of the night gathering intel on the gala Clint would be attending, even more intel on Henri Moreau, and making double damn sure their tech equipment was functioning properly.

Then he'd had to make a short drive to a meeting point with a friend of his halfway between the base and the city. He'd made a short exchange and driven back – gotten back to his room in time to grab his things and hightail it to the hangar.

Clint was already there – looking over their jet. He was getting to fly them today – partly as a treat because Phil knew he loved to fly the jet – but also because they didn't need the extra personnel a pilot would cause. It was just a protection detail, after all.

Clint had his earbuds in and was looking intently at something on one of the jet engines. He seemed to sense Phil's approach though, because he turned. He smiled in greeting and pulled his earbuds out, stuffing them into his pocket.

"Ready? I've already finished all the pre-flight stuff."

"A little eager?" Phil teased as they walked towards the ramp.

" _Four_  months, Phil. It's been four months."

Phil nodded. He knew exactly how ready Clint was to be back in the field. He held up a white paper bag as he dropped his things inside the jet.

"Figured you'd appreciate some breakfast – something told me you wouldn't take the time to stop at the mess to get something."

Clint's smile turned almost…giddy.

"Is that a…"

"Yes, it is – plain with extra cream cheese."

"Phil – you're awesome – I don't care what anybody says."

"Gee – thanks." Phil rolled his eyes as they settled into their seats – Clint as pilot and Phil as co-pilot. Phil frowned suddenly. "Wait – who's saying different?"

Clint smirked focused with unreasonable intensity on the controls.

"Just who  _is_  this guy that you know? It's three thirty in the morning."

Phil glared for the blatant disregard of his question, but answered anyway.

"You know I can't reveal my sources."

It was Clint's turn to roll his eyes.

"You know what? I don't even care. You could be dealing with the devil himself and I wouldn't care if it meant I got my bagel."

"Why do I feel like you mean that?"

Clint grinned and pulled his headset on.

"This is Quinjet Foxtrot-Beta-5-0-1-5, am I cleared to exit the hangar?" Clint powered the jet up as he spoke to flight control.

" _All clear, Foxtrot-Beta-5-0-1-5."_

"Roger – engaging throttle in 3-2-1-engaged."

The engines hummed to life and the jet started taxiing towards the hangar exit as Clint eased the throttle forward.

" _Foxtrot-Beta-5-0-1-5, you are cleared for takeoff."_

"Engaging thrusters in 3-2-1-engaged."

Clint eased the jet into the air. As soon as they were clear of the base and the surrounding trees, he eased the twin levers forward and they shot into motion. Clint steered them onto the correct flight path to take them to Paris and then released the jet to autopilot.

"Seven hours and counting."

Clint sat back, pulled off the headset and reached for the bagel bag. He couldn't stifle a yawn as he pulled out his bagel and searched for butter.

"I know we leave this early so that it's easier to go to sleep at a normal local time," he commented as he spread the butter on the bagel and then proceeded to glob unholy amounts of cream cheese onto it, "but it sucks in a major way. I don't think I even slept last night. I stayed up studying the mission file and then all that new intel you brought me at  _one_  in the morning."

"You say that like you were actually going to sleep if I hadn't shown up with that intel."

"I might have."

Phil rolled his eyes and watched Clint take a big bite of his bagel. He licked his own lips, suddenly realizing that – in his haste to get Clint the bagel and then get ready to leave – he hadn't gotten himself anything to eat. He wasn't exactly  _hungry,_  per se. He didn't eat with nearly the frequency Clint did and they'd had a late dinner.

But the bagel smelled fantastic and just the thought of how it would taste had his mouth watering. Phil blinked and there was half a bagel being held in front of his face – butter and cream cheese already applied.

He glanced at Clint, who was switching tracks on his iPod and very purposefully  _not_  looking at him. Phil hesitated.

"I know you probably forgot to get yourself something because you were so worried about getting  _me_  something, so just take the damn bagel."

Phil smiled and reached for the bagel half.

"You were practically salivating anyway."

That had the handler scoffing and shaking his head. Clint never could just let a kind and caring deed go quietly – he just  _had_  to throw in some sarcasm. It made Phil smile.

He wouldn't have Clint any other way.

* * *

"How can they have  _no_  intel on her location?" Clint frowned as he tossed an M&M up in the air and caught it in his mouth. He had his feet propped up on the console and was slouched low in the pilot's seat. Phil also had his feet propped, but somehow – to Clint's fascination – still managed to look completely proper and dignified.

Even with his feet on the consol.

Phil frowned in response to the question.

"Fury and I have been asking the same question for months now."

"She's that good?" Clint's eyebrow arched curiously.

"It would seem." Phil sighed. "But you were hard to nail down, too. I only ever found you in Tangiers that one time and then in Vienna. It's the nature of the profession."

"Yeah," Clint allowed, "but the point is that you did find me. And you had suspected locations even when you didn't have definitive ones, right?"

"True, but you had a signature – your arrows. Made you easier to track, even if I only ever knew where you'd  _been_  instead of where you were."

Clint winced a little. In retrospect, the arrows as a calling card had been like a shining beacon. And because of that, he still had to be careful when he used them today.

"Maybe not my brightest decision – but it inspired fear and awe. That's what I wanted back then."

"You needed that," Phil agreed. "You needed people to fear you so they wouldn't try to cross you."

Clint nodded, brow creased slightly as he frowned.

"Worked until Akos."

Phil inclined his head slightly in agreement.

"But," Clint perked up a little, "if he hadn't tried to cross me, I would have killed my mark and  _you_  wouldn't have caught up to me."

"I might have caught up with you anyway," Phil pointed out seriously.

"No," Clint smirked in a distinctly mocking fashion, "you wouldn't have."

Phil rolled his eyes. Clint chuckled a little but then sobered.

"So she's better than I ever was – not even an  _idea_  of where she is?"

Phil shook his head.

"We have no way evidence to tie contracts to her except for eye witnesses. She's an expert at social espionage. Where you blend in, she stands out."

Clint eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

"Reports say people are so mesmerized that by the time they realize she's made the hit, she's already gone."

"Do we have a description of her?" Clint asked curiously. If she was as bold as she sounded – SHIELD  _had_  to have some sort of description at the very least.

"I can do you one better – we've got a picture," Phil leaned over and shuffled through the files in his backpack. He withdrew a thin one and held it out to Clint. The archer arched an eyebrow at the red "Classified" stamp across the front. Beneath it was a "Top Secret" stamp.

"I should think one implied the other." He motioned the overzealous stamping.

"You should see your file, kid. It's got a clearance level stamped on it in addition to both of those."

"Really?" Clint smirked arrogantly.

"Even certain members of the council can't get eyes on it. Thank Fury for that. He classified it up to the highest clearance level. It's for your own protection."

Clint rolled his eyes at that.  _Sure_  it was. He doubted Phil entirely believed that either. If only a handful of people had access to his file, he'd be easier to erase if anything ever went wrong. Like him going rogue – or getting his ass killed or captured.

He looked back at the file Phil had handed him. The label read "Romanoff, Natasha". He flipped it open and his eyebrows immediately rose.  _Ho-ly hell._  He knew immediately why Natasha Romanoff – The Black Widow – was so good at her job. She was beautiful. Long, loosely-curling fiery red hair. Sharp, intelligent green eyes. Slim, fit body.

Yeah, he could see why she mesmerized her marks. Hell, if it weren't for the whole "deadly assassin" thing,  _he_ wouldn't mind being mesmerized by Natasha Romanoff. He didn't realize he'd started reading through the file until Phil pulled it out of his hands.

"She's not your mission, kid."

Clint smirked a little – but then inclined his head in ascent and sat back in his chair thoughtfully.

"Moreau's got a contract on him, right?"

Phil nodded.

"I already know where you're going with this…"

"There's a chance  _she_  could be the one to take the job."

"Yes, there's a chance, but SHIELD has no intel to suggest she's even anywhere in Europe."

"Phil," Clint said with a smirk, "SHIELD doesn't have  _any_  intel to suggest  _anything_  about where she is, remember?"

"It won't be her," Phil insisted. "If you read the intel I gave you last night…"

"This morning, actually."

Phil went on undeterred by the interruption.

"Our resources in Europe have reported confirmed sightings of both Hu Jianguo and Rhys Gelson. They're at the top of our list right now as suspects."

Clint rolled his eyes and nodded.

"Yeah, Jianguo likes to carve people up and Gelson favors poisons. I read everything you gave me on them."

Phil nodded approvingly and carefully returned the thin file – evidence of how  _little_  they knew about Natasha Romanoff – to his bag. He knew when they had a location Clint would be sent after Romanoff, but that would come later. Right now, Clint was only four days back onto active duty from a nearly-crippling shoulder wound. He didn't want his agent anywhere near  _any_  assassins, much less a redhead dubbed the Black Widow that SHIELD knew virtually nothing about.

* * *

"Agent Coulson, Agent Barton," Céline Lambert – Base Operator for the Paris SHIELD base – greeted them formally as they strode down the jet ramp.

"Agent Lambert," Phil held out his hand and she shook it firmly. Clint nodded silently in greeting. She nodded back sharply.

"Welcome to Paris," she greeted in a smoothly-accented voice. "If you will both come with me, we have compiled the information you requested about Monsieur Moreau."

Phil nodded and she turned, striding towards the hangar exit. Phil followed and fell into step beside her. Clint adjusted his grip on his go-bag and then shifted it from his left hand to his right. He caught up with them as they hit the hallway.

"I trust your flight was enjoyable," Lambert chatted idly as they walked.

"Smooth skies the entire way," Phil replied easily.

Behind them, Clint shifted his eyes back and forth between them – curiosity settling into his gaze.

"When I received word from the Director that you two would be the ones handling Monsieur Moreau's protection, I must admit I was pleasantly surprised."

"Oh, really?" Phil smiled.

Clint's eyes narrowed and he slowly smirked as he followed them through the halls.

"Yes, you both have quite the," she paused and smiled, "reputation."

She pressed her palm against the palm reader outside an office and pushed the door open when the lock clicked.

"A good one, I hope," Clint put in as he followed them into the office.

"Yes," she assured as she moved around the other side of her desk and pulled open a file cabinet. Clint's eyes zeroed on the categorized labels "Covert", "International", "National", and other mission designations. Within those categories, the files looked color coded. The archer smirked and sidled up next to Phil.

"You should ask her out." He pitched his voice low, making it barely audible even to Phil, who stood right next to him.

The sideways glare he got almost made him burst out laughing.

"No, really."

"Shut up, Clint." Phil's tone was low and hissing. He smiled at Lambert as she glanced at them while she sifted through her files. Clint glanced at her, pleased to see she didn't seem aware of their conversation.

"Come on Phil, live a little."

"Clint," Phil nearly growled.

Clint's smirk grew. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Lambert pull a file.

"I noticed that you categorize your files." Clint turned to face Lambert as he spoke – smirk still firmly in place. She glanced back at her open filing cabinet, eyes surprised that he'd noticed. "Phil does that too – he even color codes  _and_  sorts chronologically."

He felt Phil's glare boring into the side of his head. Lambert smiled.

"Really? I thought I was the only one that did that."

Phil smiled hesitantly – dragging his glare away from Clint.

"I supervise a lot of missions – it helps to keep things in a logical order."

Lambert smiled and nodded as if she knew  _exactly_  what he meant. Clint picked up the file labeled "Moreau, Henri" and shifted back a step.

"I've always wondered – most bases have an operator like myself. However, in New York – you are under Director Fury himself, correct?"

Phil nodded.

"How does it work there? Here I run the day-to-day operations for the entire Paris base – but I have coordinators for various areas – training, the infirmary, et cetra."

"Phil's basically the one in charge under Fury back in New York," Clint interjected as he shifted towards the door.

"Really?" Lambert perked up a little at the discovery of a kindred spirit.

"Well that's not exactly…" Phil started, but Clint cut in as he reached the door.

"Why don't you tell her about how things run in New York, Phil? I'm sure you two have  _a lot_  in common."

"Clint." Phil's tone pitched low and in warning.

"I actually would love to compare notes…" Lambert put in with an enthusiastic smile.

"Great!" Clint grinned, pulling the door open. "You two talk about that. I'm gonna go do some studying." He held up the file demonstratively and left the room with one last smirk directed at Phil.

* * *

Clint pushed his way through the door to the garage – making a bee-line for the man sitting behind a large desk.

"I need a car."

"ID number?" the man asked as he shook the mouse for his desktop computer and brought the screen to life.

"4-9-4-7-6-2-Delta-Zulu." Clint rattled the identification number easily as he shifted the file to join his bags in his right hand and fished his phone out of his pocket with his left. He slid his finger across the screen and opened his text messages.

He sensed the other agent's gaze focus on him and looked up from the message he was typing to Phil.

"Are you…" The agent trailed off and Clint's eyebrow arched. The agent cleared his throat uncomfortably and looked back at his screen – unable to continue facing Clint's intense gaze. Clint looked back at his phone, finished typing, and pressed send.

He slid the phone back into his pocket and looked up as the agent turned to a lock box and typed in a code. A moment later he was holding a set of keys out to Clint.

"It's a Jeep – the newest vehicle we have in the motor pool."

Clint inclined his head in appreciation and took the keys. He arched his eyebrow again, this time in question.

"Third lane on the left."

He nodded once and strode away. Less than a minute later, he was tossing his gear into the back of a black, hard-top Jeep and cranking the engine to life.

* * *

Phil pulled out his phone when it vibrated.

_Gonna drop my gear at the safe house._

Phil sighed and slid his phone back into his pocket. He couldn't believe Clint had abandoned him here. Agent Lambert wasn't unpleasant to talk to – she was very intelligent and had a great sense of humor. But Phil wasn't here to flirt – despite what Clint seemed to think. He knew Clint was just messing around, but Phil didn't have time for this.

He smiled pleasantly as Lambert continued to elaborate on the training schedule she'd designed – meant to use the training facilities to their maximum efficiency. Phil had never really thought about the efficiency with which they used their training facilities. The only agent whose training he concerned himself with was Clint's.

"What do you think?" she asked hopefully.

"Well, honestly we have a training supervisor who is responsible for handling the facilities and the schedule. I've never given it much thought."

"So how  _is_ the leadership structured in New York?"

"Well, obviously Director Fury is over all of us – but since he's the director over the whole organization, he delegates. As I said, we have various supervisors over the different areas."

"And what do you supervise?"

"Agent Barton, mostly." Phil laughed because being Clint's handler was a full-time job in and of itself. "But I also run our ops teams when they're running missions."

Lambert nodded in understanding.

"Look, my agent has decided to head to our safe house without me – do you think I can convince you to sign out a second car to me?"

"Of course – but before you go, I have some information on the gala that wasn't in the file Agent Barton made off with."

Phil made an expression somewhere between a grimace and a smile. He was going to have words with Clint about that little disappearing act. He knew the kid was excited to be back in the field, but these types of antics had a time and place.

He blinked when Lambert produced a large manila envelope from her desk.

"The credentials Agent Barton will need to get into the gala. It is five days from now and the security is supposed to be fairly tight. Are you and Agent Barton sure that is when the assassin will make his – or her – move?"

"Agent Barton is sure and that's all I need." Phil took the envelope and picked up his bags from the floor. Lambert nodded agreeably.

"So he's really that good?"

"Yes," Phil responded simply. "Now if you'll just point me towards the garage."

* * *

Phil pressed his palm against the palm reader outside the safe house door. When the light above the reader flashed green, and the lock clicked, he pushed the door open and made his way inside.

"Clint, I don't know about you, but I'm starving. What do you say we go find some dinner?"

Phil frowned slightly when there was no immediate response.

He continued farther into the large, open, top-floor apartment – just half a block from Henri Moreau's house – and set his things down near the cots.

"Clint?"

He looked around and frowned. The apartment was empty. Clint's bags were there, deposited almost carelessly on one of the cots and laying open. A piece of paper – apparently a section of white space torn from a mission briefing page – was stuck with an arrow head to the wall above Clint's cot.

Phil moved over to it and leaned over the cot to read Clint's scrawly handwriting.

_Phil – went to case the hotel where the gala's going to be. Be back in a while with dinner._

Phil wasn't prepared for the wave of anger that swept over him. Clint just went out – to the scene of a would-be assassination – alone. He didn't wait so Phil could go back him up. He just left – with nothing but a note to tell Phil where he'd gone.

Phil forced a deep breath. This was Clint's job. He was good at it. He shouldn't be surprised that he'd gone out without him. He did it all the time on a mission. Phil ran a hand over his face and looked down at Clint's bags.

He cocked his head, seeing a strip of Velcro sticking out of one of the bags. He reached and pulled the bag open farther. His jaw clenched as he pulled out Clint's Kevlar vest.

_Goddamnit, Clint._

He had his cell phone out and calling Clint before he'd even fully thought it through. The kid had  _just_  gotten cleared after taking a round to the shoulder and he'd gone to a place he suspected would be an assassin's playground –  _without_  a vest.

Without a goddamned vest.

" _Barton."_

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

There was a beat of silence and he could picture Clint's blink of surprise.

" _Come again?"_  There was a measured control to Clint's tone – a characteristic Phil associated with Clint when he was about to get pissed. Phil wasn't about to be deterred now. Not when Clint was out there without a vest when there could be an assassin staking out the same location he was casing right now.

"Where the hell are you?"

" _I'm at the hotel. I left you a note."_

"Why didn't you wait for me?"

" _Why the hell would I?"_

"Because you shouldn't be…" Phil stopped himself and winced.

" _I shouldn't be_ _ **what**_ _, Phil?"_ That was the pissed and defensive tone. Phil didn't like that tone because once Clint hit that tone it was hard to get him away from it. He took a deep breath.

"Shouldn't be out without your vest," Phil amended carefully.

The silence over the line told Phil he hadn't amended quickly enough.

"Clint…."

" _Something tells me that's not what you were_ _ **really**_ _gonna say, Phil."_ Clint spoke suddenly – as if he'd been waiting for Phil to speak just so he could interrupt him.

"Clint," Phil tried again, wishing – not for the first time – that Clint wasn't  _quite_  so perceptive.

" _What_ _ **were**_ _you gonna say?"_

He wasn't going to let it go. Phil could hear it in his tone. And Clint's stubbornness wasn't something Phil had ever learned to counteract, so he sighed deeply.

"I didn't mean it like you thought I did."

" _Really? Because it sounded like you were saying I shouldn't be doing my job."_

"That's not…"

But it was – and Phil knew it. As far as the protective part of Phil was concerned, Clint should never do anything remotely dangerous every again – not after what happened in Croatia, no matter if it was his job or not. And the protective part was the only part that really had a voice right now.

" _Or maybe that you think I_ _ **can't**_ _do my job."_

"Clint, stop it."

" _Stop what? Asking for the truth?"_

"Blowing things out of proportion!" Phil snapped. Clint was being ridiculous – childish.

" _Pot meet kettle."_

"I have a legitimate reason to be upset." Phil knew  _he_  sounded defensive now – and part of him knew that wasn't going to help the situation. But a bigger part of him was still too pissed off to care.

" _A legitimate…when have I_ _ **ever**_ _worn a vest during recon?"_

Phil scowled.

"You're casing an area that you believe is going to be the location for an assassination – don't you think the damned assassin could be there, too?"

" _You think I don't know how to stay out of sight?"_

Sarcasm – just what the situation needed.

"That's not the point."

" _Then what the hell_ _ **is**_ _the point?"_

Phil frowned deeply. The  _point_  was that Clint had just recovered from nearly getting killed by a bullet. Phil wanted him to wear a goddamned vest – wanted him to be  _cautious_  for once in his life. How to say all of that – without pissing the kid off further – wasn't something he was sure how to do.

" _You know what? I've got a lot of scouting to do. I'm gonna grab dinner on my own. Don't wait up."_

Phil nearly flinched when the line went dead, and resisted the urge to throw the phone across the room.

The damned kid had hung up on him.

* * *

Clint stood for a moment outside the roof-entry door, staring at the smooth metal surface. He was exhausted – he really was. It was close to midnight Paris time, which meant it was about 6 p.m. his time. But given that he didn't sleep last night, he'd been awake for about 36 hours. He'd stayed awake for much longer than that while in the field, but the difference was adrenaline. When he was in the field running an operation, his adrenaline flowed as constantly as his blood. But when he was just running surveillance, scouting, learning the nuances of a city – not exactly things that got the adrenaline pumping – he got worn out.

But it wasn't just the drain of the footwork. Fighting with Phil was always an extra strain. He still couldn't believe Phil had tried to call him to the mat for not wearing a vest. He  _never_  wore a vest on surveillance. The whole point of  _surveillance_  was to stay out of sight, to not  _need_  a vest.

But what rankled him the most – what still had him pissed off even now – was that Phil hadn't quite  _said,_ but had implied that he shouldn't – or _couldn't_  – do his job how he used to. He had spent the last four months fighting with everything he had to get back to this point, to who and what he used to be. What it came down to was that Phil didn't think he could do this on his own anymore – didn't trust he could do his job.

And that hurt.

Clint's response to hurt – ever since he was a little kid – had always been anger.  _"A defense mechanism,"_ the shrink at SHIELD had called it when Clint was first evaluated three years ago when he was recruited. He'd been angry back then – at everything – because everything had hurt.

Now he was angry at Phil – for hurting him, for not trusting him, for doubting him.

Clint sighed. He really didn't want to go in, but he needed sleep. So he pressed his hand against the palm reader. The light flashed green and the lock clicked. He took another breath and then pushed his way inside.

The apartment was dark except for a light in the small kitchen. Phil was sitting at the kitchen table, pouring over what Clint assumed were the mission files. Clint steeled himself and strode into the room, heading straight for his cot.

"Clint."

Clint kept walking, striping off his jacket and jerking his bags off his bed and to the floor.

"Would you look at me when I'm talking to you?"

Clint stayed facing his cot for an extra beat in an – admittedly – childish act of defiance. Then he blanked out his expression and turned, arching an inquisitive eyebrow.

Phil looked like he was struggling to hold in his own temper.

They just stared at each other for a moment.

"Look," Phil started carefully, "about our conversation…"

"I don't want to talk about it." Clint turned back to his cot.

"Damn it, Clint – look at me!"

"Why?" Clint whirled. "So you can tell me again how I can't do my job?"

"I never said…" Phil tried to defend.

"Oh and you never thought it?" Clint challenged darkly. "You think  _I_ haven't thought it a million times in the last four months? Do you think I needed you throwing it in my face?"

"I would never…"

"But you  _did_!" Clint interrupted sharply.

"Damn it! Would you let me get a goddamned sentence out?"

"No! I'm done talking." Clint threw himself down on the cot, and kicked off his boots. "I'm tired and I want to sleep. That okay with you?"

Phil let out a low noise that came close to a growl.

"If you would stop acting like a child for two seconds…"

"I said I'm done talking!" Clint snapped, reaching to his bag to yank his iPod out.

"Fine!" Phil snapped right back. "Then I am too!" With that, the handler spun on his heel and stormed to the roof door. Clint flinched slightly when it slammed shut behind him. He dropped his head back against his pillow and forced his breathing to calm.

He couldn't believe Phil had just walked out. Maybe he'd pushed him too far, but it wasn't the first time he'd done that. Phil had never walked away before. Clint swallowed and rolled to his side pushing an earbud into his ear and pressing play.

Before he even realized it, the exhaustion took hold and he fell asleep – still wondering when Phil was going to come back.

* * *

Phil paced the rooftop for a good ten minutes before the reality of Clint's words really started to sink in. Of  _course_  the kid had been struggling with wondering if he could still do his job. After four months of uncertainty – of not knowing if he'd ever be the same – of course Clint was hypersensitive about it right now.

God help him – Phil understood.

But Croatia was still fresh in  _his_  mind, too. He still remembered being covered in Clint's blood. He remembered sitting in a waiting room for nine hours just to hear if he was even still alive – if he was going to stay that way. He remembered being told Clint may never fire his bow again and then having to tell the kid. He remembered all of it – like it was four  _days_  ago instead of four months.

Reason and logic had fled when he'd seen that vest. His heart still clenched at the thought of Clint blatantly disregarding his own safety like that. It was irrational, he knew. He'd over-reacted. The past four months had been nothing but tension, stress, and uncertainty. He still felt the lingering worry and fear that he'd become so familiar with ever since that shot had cracked across the street in Zagreb. Now it was all bleeding over into the present and making Phil feel like he was wound tighter than Clint's bow string. Seeing that vest was all it had taken to make him snap.

Phil sighed deeply. And he'd accused  _Clint_  of over-reacting. Turned out Clint hadn't been the only one. An apology was probably in order.

He made his way back to the door, scanned his hand, and quietly made his way back inside. He could tell the moment he saw Clint that his agent was asleep. He was on his side, facing the door, left arm curled under his pillow and his right hand loosely wrapped around his iPod. His breathing was deep and even.

Phil sighed and shifted closer, pulling the folded blanket out from under Clint's socked feet and spreading it over him. Even asleep, Clint looked exhausted – and despite how much he wanted to get his own guilt off his shoulders, he didn't want to wake him.

"We'll work it out in the morning, kid," he whispered before moving over to his cot and dropping onto it.

Sleep was a long time coming.

* * *

_"Andrić is dead. McGuire killed him."_

_Clint listened to Phil update Fury and confirm that the threat the president was neutralized. He scanned the open street carefully, highly-trained eyes attuned to any nuance that was out of place. He saw the light as it shifted and cocked his head. A red beam of light, not unlike what he targeted with on his bow sometimes. He turned to tell Phil, already reaching to pull the man back._

_There was a red dot on Phil's chest._

_There was no thought process. No conscious decision. Clint just moved, reacting to the sight instinctively. He heard the sharp rapport of a single gunshot just as he shoved Phil back a step and stepped to the left._

_His last thought as the bullet ripped into his left shoulder was a desperate hope that it didn't just go straight through him and hit Phil anyway._

_He woke to pain – heart-stopping, gut-wrenching pain consuming his shoulder. He bucked – he had to get away from the pain, from the horrible, crushing weight on his shoulder. A voice filtered in._

" _Clint! Look at me!"_

_He looked to Phil, eyes wide. He remembered a red dot on Phil's chest._

" _I know it hurts, but I have to do it. Stop fighting me."_

_Clint stilled his struggles and rolled his head away. He could handle pain. He could channel it. Pain was temporary. Pain meant you were still alive. He dragged his eyes back to Phil. He raised his right hand, touching the spot the red dot had been._

" _You 'kay?" He forced words out and felt what little strength he had start to drain out of him._

" _You're the one that got shot, you idiot!"_

_Clint had never heard the term 'idiot' spoken with quite that mixture of anxiety, affection, and exasperation before. Relief swept through him. Coulson spoke again but Clint lost time, pain sweeping through him. With that wave of pain came a terrifying realization._

_He couldn't feel his left arm._

_No pain. No sensation. Nothing. It was like it wasn't even attached._

_He distantly heard Phil ask what was wrong._

_"I can't – I can't feel m' arm…"_

_He rolled his head, needing to see the limb to be sure it was still there. It was, but no amount of mental urging could get it to move. Another wave of pain crashed through him. He heard Phil's voice, but couldn't process what he was saying. He felt himself drifting away, and couldn't stop it._

_This time when he woke, Phil was there – and so were Dan and a man Clint didn't know._

" _What happened?" he asked wearily as he pushed himself up with his right arm._

" _You got shot." Dan spoke quietly from where he stood at the foot of Clint's bed. Clint's eyes immediately went to Phil, but his handler wouldn't look at him._

" _Agent Barton, the bullet damaged something called the brachial plexus," the man he didn't know explained carefully._

" _What's that?" Clint frowned._

" _It's the bundle of nerves that control the arm," the man continued._

_Clint swallowed, feeling starting to trickle in. The feeling of his right hand braced on the mattress. The feeling of the strap of his sling over his shoulder. The pain in his shoulder._

_He froze._

_His left arm was wrapped in the sling, strapped tightly to his chest. He couldn't feel the pressure of the sling. Couldn't feel where his hand was brushing his chest. He couldn't feel it – at all._

" _I can't feel my arm."_

_He made the declaration suddenly and three sets of eyes pinned on him._

" _Barton…" Dan started quietly._

" _What?"_

_Dan sighed deeply._

" _Barton, your shoulder sustained permanent damage. Dr. Brunner," Dan nodded at the mystery man, "did everything he could. But…" Dan just shook his head._

_Clint felt his breath start speeding up, his heart rate skyrocketing. He willed his fingers to move, with every fiber of his soul, but nothing happened. He couldn't do it. He couldn't feel it._

_His left arm was gone. Forever. And that meant so was his bow._

_He looked to Phil._

" _Phil…"_

_But Phil didn't look at him. He sat up fully and reached for his handler's arm – determined to get his attention – to see the reassurance that would be in his eyes. He needed that reassurance._

_But Phil stepped away – out of reach._

" _Phil?"_

_Phil turned away completely._

" _Phil! Look at me!"_

_But Phil started to head for the door._

" _Where are you going?"_

_Phil just kept walking away – didn't even look back. Clint felt panic settle in. Phil couldn't leave him. He couldn't lose him – not after what he'd just done to make sure that didn't happen._

" _Phil!" he couldn't remember the last time his tone had gotten that pleading – that desperate._

_The slamming of his hospital room door cracked like a gunshot across the tiny room._

* * *

Phil wasn't sure why he stirred from sleep. But he returned to awareness anyway. He blinked into the darkness of the bunkroom, immediately sensing there was no immediate danger. Bringing his left wrist around to make his watch visible, he pressed the button to light up the face and squinted at the sudden brightness.

2:37 a.m.

He frowned pushing himself up onto his elbows, wondering what had pulled him from blissful unconsciousness. He'd only been asleep for a few hours and he could already feel the pull to return to sleep.

"Phil?"

Phil's head snapped to his left, to where Clint was sleeping. His name hadn't been spoken loudly, or even really enunciated, but it was there. Phil pushed himself all the way up and swung his legs over the edge of the cot.

"Clint?"

He watched Clint twitch and heard him mumble something else. Phil sighed and stood, moving closer. Of  _course_  he'd end up with a nightmare tonight – because today hadn't been fucked up enough to begin with. Clint was sleeping with his left arm tossed above his head, in that haphazard fashion that happened when one thrashed a little too much in sleep.

"Clint." He called it more firmly this time and frowned as Clint's breathing sped up.

He finally reached forward and tapped Clint's right shoulder.

The archer came awake with a gasp, jack-knifing and grasping at his left arm, now resting limply across his lap. His breathing hit a new level of frantic – near hyperventilation – and Phil reached forward to grasp his shoulder.

"Clint! Hey, easy! What's wrong?"

Clint's right hand was suddenly in a vice grip around Phil's forearm – tight enough that he was certain it would leave a bruise.

"I can't…" Clint forced a strained inhalation, eyes squeezing closed. "I can't feel my left arm."

Phil frowned – both at Clint's frantic grip on his arm and at the panicked explanation. He stared at Clint in growing concern for a moment and then forced his eyes to Clint's left arm. His arm was still lying limply on his lap. But his fingers were moving, only slightly, but they were moving. And he'd pulled his arm in front of him when he'd sat up. Phil felt part of his concern ebb slightly. He shifted, trying to move so he could sit on the edge of the cot instead of crouch beside it.

Clint's breathing immediately went past "near- hyperventilation" straight to hyperventilation.

"Don't leave."

Phil froze and a lump rose in his throat. He opened his mouth to assure Clint that he'd never do that – not willingly – but paused when he realized that was exactly what he'd done earlier. Right before Clint fell asleep Phil had walked away from him – in the middle of an argument. He'd walked away and he'd never done that before.

"Jesus, kid…" Phil shook his head. "I didn't…I wasn't leaving you."

Clint didn't seem to hear him – was growing paler by the moment as his breathing continued its rapid trip towards hyperventilation.

"Clint! Get it under control!" Phil really tried not to snap out the order, but Clint was scaring him now. His right hand tightened painfully around Phil's forearm – almost as if to anchor him in place.

Clint dropped his head back, eyes clenched, but nothing about his breathing changed.

Phil reached forward with his free hand and hooked his hand behind Clint's neck. He forced the archer's head forward and waited for him to open his eyes.

"Get. It. Under. Control." This time the order was forceful – demanding obedience.

Clint tried to do as he said, Phil watched him struggle, forcing himself to slow his breathing. He reached forward and hooked his free hand with Clint's in an arm-wrestler's grip.

"I'm not going anywhere," he added more quietly. Finally Clint seemed to start regaining control over his lungs.

Phil returned his attention to Clint's hand. Then he remembered the way Clint had been sleeping. His left arm tossed haphazardly above his head.

And it hit him.

"Clint, look at me."

Clint, still battling with his breathing, raised his eyes to Phil's. Phil forced himself to maintain his composure in the face of Clint's wide, terrified and panicked gaze.

"Squeeze my hand."

Clint frowned suddenly, confusion taking over his expression.

"Just do it," Phil urged. A moment later Clint's fingers tightened around his hand. He saw something flash through Clint's eyes – realization, maybe, or surprise. "It's just asleep, kid."

Clint winced, his eyes dropping to his arm. Phil could imagine the pins and needles that would be starting now. The shots of pain as blood flow returned and feeling reawakened.

"It's just asleep." Phil repeated the assurance quietly, watching the realization wash through Clint's expression. Overwhelming relief lit up Clint's eyes and for a moment Phil thought he might lose control of the emotions he kept so tightly reigned. But in the end he collapsed forward, forehead going against Phil's collarbone. He kept gasping breaths, but the relief was palpable and the control was returning.

"I thought…In the dream…"

Phil wriggled his right arm out of Clint's suddenly lax grip and squeezed the back of Clint's neck. He knew what had haunted Clint tonight. It was the same thing that haunted him now almost every time he slept – Croatia. He hadn't had one of those dreams – thankfully – in a few days. He wasn't holding his breath that he'd remain as lucky.

"Then I couldn't feel it…" Clint continued trying to explain, but Phil squeezed the back of his neck again to silence him. He listened as Clint took another deep, shuddering breath.

"It was just asleep. Keep squeezing my hand and it'll help."

Clint obeyed for a moment. Just breathing. But then he spoke again – determined to explain himself.

"You walked away."

Phil squeezed his eyes closed for a moment. He'd been afraid of that, that their argument earlier had played a part in the dream.

"I'm sorry." Phil whispered the apology quietly. Clint shook his head and pulled back.

"You can't do that, okay? You can't walk away from me like that."

Phil nodded.

"Never again."

Clint nodded in return and sat back against the wall, taking a deep breath.

"Sorry for…" he motioned vaguely, "all of this."

Phil was already shaking his head.

"Don't do that – don't apologize. This is  _normal_ , Clint."

Clint scoffed, drawing his knees up to his chest on the bed and rubbing his hands across his face.

"Normal?"

"Well, our version of it, at least." Phil sighed. Clint's eyes focused on him, picking up something in the way Phil said it. Phil watched the question form in his expression. "You think you're the only one that dreams about Croatia? You're not."

Clint swallowed and remained silent, not asking what Phil knew he wanted to ask. The handler sighed and shifted to sit on the bed next to his charge.

"I haven't quite been able to shake what happened either, kid. You're not alone in that."

Clint didn't ask for any more and Phil didn't volunteer. Instead they sat together in silence for several minutes, letting the adrenaline of the dream – and its aftermath – fade away. Finally Clint glanced at him.

"Wanna go for a run?"

Phil nodded immediately. He thought he might need it as much as Clint this time.

* * *

End of Chapter 2

So  **Kylen,** as my awesome beta, was given a choice by me to choose what I did Clint's nightmare about...she wanted to have it be about Croatia and him losing his ability to use his arm. So thank her for choosing that lol :)

I know the guys were snippy at each other this chapter - but they've been under a lot of stress the past few months - that's bleeding over into the present. They'll work it out :)

Now - your preview for Chapter 3

* * *

_Clint stepped back, shooting Phil a sheepish look. Phil didn't look at all surprised – or even disappointed. He just looked vaguely amused. Clint looked to Moreau._

_The man was blinking in wide-eyed shock. He raised his eyes from the two groaning men on the floor to Clint and then…he laughed._

_"Yes, it would definitely seem I hired the right man."_


	3. These Iron Bars Can't Hold My Soul In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> As always - thanks to Kylen my amazing beta ;)
> 
> And special thanks to writtergirl15 for being my awesome French translator :) she had A LOT to translate and she did an amazing job!
> 
> And now I give you, Chapter 3

  
_Great achievement is usually born of great sacrifice, and is never the result of selfishness.  
_ **_Napoleon Hill_ **   


* * *

Phil was breathing hard when he pushed his way back into the apartment. Their run had been a little more intense than usual, but they'd both had a little more to work through this time around. And of course it had started raining when they were three blocks from the apartment. He and Clint had looked at the sky – then at each other – and then they'd high-tailed it back to the apartment.

He headed for the fridge, listening as Clint closed the door. He pulled out a water bottle for himself and a blue Gatorade for Clint.

"Heads up." He tossed the Gatorade bottle to Clint, arching an eyebrow when Clint twisted awkwardly to catch it with his right hand instead of his left. He kept his gaze fixed on his agent – asking without words for an explanation.

"Aches." Clint nodded at his left arm simply.

Phil nodded. That made sense after having it fall asleep for God only knew how long. The cold rain that had pelted them as they ran those last blocks probably hadn't helped.

"Why don't you go take a hot shower? That'll help. I'll make some coffee and when it's a decent time we'll go get some breakfast."

Clint smiled slightly.

"I know where we can get the best crêpes in the city."

Phil returned the smile.

"Somehow I'm not surprised. Now go on."

Clint snagged fresh clothes out of his bag and disappeared into the bathroom. Phil had just turned to pull the coffee machine out of the cabinet where it was stored when a towel hit him in the back of the head. He turned, but the bathroom door was already clicking closed. He heard the shower kick on a moment later. He shook his head and smiled, returning to his task as he used one hand to rub the towel through his wet hair.

It wasn't the oldest coffee machine he'd ever had to use, but neither was it the expensive brand new one he had back home. He searched the cabinets for the filters and then went over to his bag to retrieve his – and Clint's – favorite coffee brew. He never left home without it.

He set the coffee brewing and leaned against the counter to wait. He ended up arguing with himself over whether or not he wanted to push the vest issue. It still worried him – Clint going around without protection when an assassin was most likely circling like a hawk. But he also had to acknowledge that Clint could take care of himself – had learned long ago to be his own protection.

Phil sighed deeply. He felt like he owed Clint an explanation – at the very least – for why he'd flown off the handle about something he'd never taken issue with before. It didn't seem like their argument was any kind of issue anymore, but it would become one again if they didn't get it sorted out.

The sound of the rain on the kitchen window drew his eyes. Clint didn't like the rain and he'd never been shy about pointing that out at every opportunity. Phil didn't mind it. He found it oddly soothing – something about the sound it made as it beat against glass or against a rooftop. His eyes tracked a series of drops as they hit the window and then dripped down the glass.

The sound of the bathroom door opening had him blinking abruptly. He glanced down at the coffee pot to check its progress – surprised to find it fully brewed. He looked back at the window, frowning as he considered how long he'd stood here, lost in thought.

He pulled open a cabinet, searching for mugs. Clint appeared next to him suddenly – moving more silently than a ghost. Phil blinked at him, eyes questioning. The expression on Clint's face was deadly serious and his eyes deeply contemplative as if he'd been considering and planning his next words very intently.

In the end, his words were simple.

"I get it."

There was something in Clint's eyes as he said it that told Phil it was the truth – that Clint understood everything Phil had been struggling with over the past hours.

"And I'm sorry."

Phil's throat tightened a little at the honest sincerity in Clint's tone. He should have known that Clint had been laboring over the whole situation just as intently as he had. Phil nodded in acceptance, almost relieved that he didn't need to explain himself. But that didn't mean he still didn't have something he needed to say.

"I'm sorry, too. I over-reacted."

"There was a lot of that going around." Clint made a wry face and reached past Phil to pull a mug from the cabinet. "Maybe we're both still wound a little too tight after everything that's happened."

He poured the fresh coffee into the mug and held it out to Phil.

Phil accepted it with a smile.

"Go get a shower before you catch something. The last thing I need is you getting sick and then getting  _me_  sick. I've got an op to run." Clint finished with a smirk and retrieved another mug.

Phil rolled his eyes and headed to his cot.

"Your concern for my health is overwhelming." Phil shook his head in amusement and pulled dry clothes from his bag. Clint held up his coffee mug – now laden with more sugar than coffee, Phil was sure – in mock salute. Phil was rolling his eyes at the smirk on his agent's face even as he closed the bathroom door.

* * *

Phil nearly groaned in delight as he took a bite of his crêpe. Across the small wooden table, Clint smirked and bit into his own.

"You were right. This is the best crêpe I've ever had."

"I come to  _Josselin_  every time I'm in Paris – usually more than once." Clint spoke around a mouthful of his breakfast and had barely swallowed before he was taking another large bite.

"If you don't slow down, you're going to choke."

Clint rolled his eyes.

"Are you kidding? I'm practically a professional at this."

"Eating crêpes?"

"Eating," Clint corrected with a grin as he took yet another bite. Phil shook his head in amusement and wiped his mouth with his napkin.

"So, we're scheduled to meet Moreau at 10 a.m. What's your game plan before and after?" Phil posed the question casually. He'd been letting Clint plan the missions how he deemed fit since the day he was recruited. An eighteen year old who had become one of the most feared contract assassins in the world in under a year didn't need to be told how to run an op.

Clint answered just as casually – as if it were an everyday conversation.

"Surveillance before – surveillance after – and an ass load of surveillance in between. Watching is how we'll catch this guy."

Phil nodded. Any assassin worth his salt ran a hell of a lot of surveillance before making a hit. But just because they were there didn't mean they were easy to spot. It took a guy like Clint to be able to catch a glimpse. There was a saying about that – something about 'it takes a thief to catch a thief'. The whole reason Clint was here was based on the assumption that the same held true for assassins.

"When we meet with Moreau, I'll scope out some good vantage points. I'll shadow him by rooftop for the first day or so – then I'll join his security team."

"We've got you set up as an outside hire – independent contractor specializing in security."

"That's just a fancy way of saying body guard." Clint scowled a little, almost like he was insulted by the title.

Phil shrugged a little, unconcerned about Clint's complaint. Clint excelled at complaining – seemed to strive for excellence in it at times. Phil had gotten used to it after three years, even found amusement in it. He watched Clint take another bite of his crêpe.

"You know, I don't think that a crêpe filled with Nutella really qualifies as a healthy breakfast."

Clint smirked, wiping some of the hazelnut-flavored chocolate from the corner of his mouth.

"We're not at SHIELD – I don't have to make the healthy choice."

"You say that like you make the healthy choice at home. You add sugar to  _everything_."

"Only when it will improve the flavor," Clint defended, pointing a firm finger at Phil. Then he grinned. "Which is often."

"You're going to wish you'd eaten healthier one day." Phil almost rolled his eyes at himself. He sounded like his father. He wished he could pull the words back when a smirk blossomed on Clint's face.

"When?" The smirk grew. "When I'm as old as  _you_?"

Phil gave him a mock glare.

"If I make it to your distinguished age, Phil, I promise to start eating healthy."

Phil rolled his eyes.

"Just how old you think I am?"

"Fifty." Clint smirked evilly. "Sixty."

Phil picked a caramel-covered banana piece out of his crêpe and tossed it across the table. Clint dipped his head quickly and caught the piece in his mouth, giving Phil a wildly triumphant grin. It immediately brought to mind a proud puppy and made Phil smirk in overwhelming amusement.

Clint cocked his head to the side in confusion at the sudden change of expression and Phil couldn't help it.

He laughed.

* * *

"Meeting with Moreau is at 10. Be back here by 9:45 so we can be early."

Clint made a face that had Phil shooting him a stern look.

"It's the appropriate thing to do."

"It makes us seem eager."

"It makes us seem professional," Phil countered seriously.

Clint rolled his eyes dramatically as if professional were the last thing he wanted to seem.

"Just humor me," Phil requested as he tossed Clint his comm unit. The archer caught it without even giving it a glance.

"Fine."

He said it with his most put-upon tone and a heavy sigh that had Phil rolling his eyes.

"You make it seem like I'm asking for a kidney."

Clint's little smirk at that told Phil he was  _trying_  to annoy – as he often did – just for the sake of entertainment. The archer turned back to his bag and pulled his shirt off. Phil opened his mouth – both to reply to that smirk and to ask why the hell he was changing shirts.

The words froze in his throat.

Without comment or urging, Clint pulled out his SHIELD-issued body armor – specially made to fit his upper body like a glove – and strapped it into place. He yanked his t-shirt back on over it and then shrugged his quiver into place.

He turned then, caught Phil watching, and gave him an almost shy, but definitely sincere, smile. He shrugged one shoulder and reached for his bow, lying open on his cot. He folded it quickly and stowed it away at the small of his back.

He gave Phil another smile with a meaning clearer to Phil than if he'd used words. Clint was good at that – speaking without words. What he said with that smile made Phil want to hug him.

_If it's important to you, I'll do it._

"Be careful," Phil managed to force out past the lump in his throat. Clint nodded, clapped him on the shoulder as he passed, and gave him a wink.

"Always."

* * *

"Take off the sunglasses."

Clint sighed deeply – as if Phil were asking him to do something that was a great inconvenience – and obeyed, pushing his sunglasses up to rest on his hair. Phil rolled his eyes and decided to pick his battles.

"Why couldn't I bring my bow again?"

"You won't have it at the gala. Best not to tip your hand to anyone who might be watching."

Clint shrugged one shoulder in acquiescence and shifted his eyes to the left when he sensed movement. His gaze zeroed in on the man he knew to be Henri Moreau. Moreau was flanked on both sides by a member of his security team.

"Bonjour Monsieur Sinclair," Moreau extended his hand to Clint, who shook it firmly. "J'espère que votre séjour à Paris a été agréable jusqu'à présent?" _(_ _Hello, Mr. Sinclair..._ _I trust your stay in Paris has been pleasant so far.)_

"Je passe toujours du très bon temps dans votre belle ville, monsieur." _(I always enjoy my time in your beautiful city, sir.)_

Phil breathed a silent sigh of relief that Clint was turning on the charisma. When he wanted to, Clint could be just as charming as he was deadly – he just usually preferred not to be.

"Vous avez un français comme si vous étiez né ici."Moreau nodded appreciatively. "C'est impossible que ce soit votre première visite à Paris."  _(_ _Your French is as if you were born here..._ _This cannot be your first visit to Paris.)_

"Non monsieur, j'ai eu ce plaisir plusieurs fois."  _(No, sir, I've had the honor many times.)_

"Et qu'est-ce qui vous amène ici?"  _(And what is it that brought you here?)_

For a moment Clint didn't respond and Phil knew that Moreau was being analyzed in that moment – essentially scanned for any signs of deception. It was too curious of a question, Phil knew, one that had probably set Clint on edge. But then Clint smiled genially.

"Ah vous savez des affaires par-ci et par là...veuillez m'excuser, mais la nature de mon boulot demande un certain niveau de... **,"** Clint seemed to search for the right word and ended up smirking darkly, "discrétion."  _(_ _Oh you know, this and that…forgive me but the nature of my profession requires a certain level of...subtlety.)_

Phil looked warily to Moreau – curious if he would be intimidated by the glint in Clint's eye. He was pleased – and marginally surprised – when Moreau laughed a little.

"Quelque chose me dit que j'ai engagé l'homme qu'il me fallait pour ce boulot."  _(Something tells me I have hired the right man for this job.)_

Clint smirked, eyes drifting to the two men flanking Moreau – they'd both been sized up and analyzed upon approach. Now he was just letting _them_  know that. One of the men shifted his weight and the other swallowed thickly.

Clint's eyes went back to Moreau, who was watching him with a knowing smile. The man turned his attention to Coulson.

"Ah, my manners, Monsieur Carter, it is a pleasure to meet you." Moreau extended his hand to Phil, who shook it readily.

"Now, I imagine a tour of the house is in order." Moreau motioned them to follow him.

"We can show ourselves around if you have more important matters to attend to," Phil offered.

Moreau waved him off with a smile.

"Do not be ridiculous. I am not so busy that I cannot take the time to show my own home. Come, follow me."

As they made their way through various rooms of the large house, Clint kept his ears tuned to Moreau and his eyes scanning and memorizing every detail of the layout. They were returning to the foyer of the house when a young woman with her black hair pinned back in a tight bun stepped out of what Clint knew to be Moreau's office – though they had yet to see the inside of it.

"Monsieur Moreau, c'est l'heure de votre conférence téléphonique avec le Premier ministre."  _(Mr. Moreau, it is time for your conference call with the Prime Minister.)_

Moreau nodded to her and turned to Phil and Clint.

"It appears time has gotten away from us. Feel free to continue wandering about, this should take no time at all."

Moreau started towards the office door. Clint stepped after him.

"Monsieur Moreau," he began, intent on asking the man for permission to accompany him into the office – if only to analyze the entry and exit points. He sensed the hand coming for his left shoulder a moment before it made contact.

A distant part of his brain recognized that it was just one of Moreau's security guards. But the instinctive, combat-trained part of his brain was what took control. Maybe it was that it was his left shoulder. Maybe it was that the guy dared to actually put a hand on him. Maybe it was just his foolish pride – and maybe it was that he just  _didn't_  like to be touched…but Clint just reacted.

He turned, sweeping his left arm up and over the guard's. A sharp jerk and twist later and the man's shoulder snapped out of socket. The second guard was already coming at him. Clint grabbed his hand as he reached for Clint's arm and twisted. The man's arm contorted awkwardly and Clint drove his boot into the man's thigh, sending him to his knees. He twisted the hand further, silently urging the man to stay on his knees, even as he turned his head back to the first man – whose arm was still trapped between Clint's arm and his side. Clint pulled the man towards him and slammed his forehead into the guy's nose. The man dropped – and Clint let him. He spun, driving his boot into the second man's head, letting him fall to the floor as well.

The whole exchange took less than ten seconds.

Clint stepped back, shooting Phil a sheepish look. Phil didn't look at all surprised – or even disappointed. He just looked vaguely amused. Clint looked to Moreau.

The man was blinking in wide-eyed shock. He raised his eyes from the two groaning men on the floor to Clint and then…he laughed.

"Yes, it would  _definitely_  seem I hired the right man."

* * *

_Four days later…_

* * *

Phil looked up from his laptop in time to see Clint yawn widely, stretch, and then hunch back over the blue prints he had spread out on the table. Watching Clint yawn made Phil yawn himself. He looked down at his watch, frowning when it took him a beat longer than it should to focus on the numbers.

He closed his laptop and stood, stretching as he did.

"I'm going to get some sleep," he announced. "You should too."

Clint didn't even glance up from his blue prints.

"I'm fine."

"Clint." Phil knew it was pointless – Clint was in full-on op mode. The operator part of his brain had kicked into high gear and wasn't about to be slowed down now. Not with the gala tomorrow.

"I've got too much to do. I've still got a dozen contingencies I haven't mapped and two exit points to run."

Phil nodded, reached for Clint's empty Gatorade bottle and tossed it in the trash. He retrieved a fresh one from the fridge and placed it on the table.

"Promise me you'll get some sleep. You need to be sharp tomorrow night."

He got a vague grunt of acknowledgment as Clint scribbled notes on the blue print near one of the points he'd marked as an exit. Phil shook his head in affectionate exasperation. The kid was thorough – he had to give him that. Clint's ability to see situations from all possible angles, analyze all possible contingencies made him the most brilliant strategist Phil knew. He could see the big picture no one else could. It was one of his most deadly qualities.

Phil patted Clint's shoulder and headed to his cot, all but collapsing down on it. He stretched out with a tired sigh and rolled onto his side. He blinked slowly, watching Clint pull a spiral notebook closer and start writing quickly in it – no doubt in shorthand notes Phil would barely be able to decipher if he tried. He closed his eyes, focusing his ears on the sound of Clint's pencil on the paper. Before he knew it, he was asleep.

* * *

" _This is Phil Coulson, ID 2-3-5-9-8-7-Yankee-Tango. Confirm the line is secure."_

_He listened to the confirmation as Clint came up next to him._

" _He can't have gotten far," Clint insisted. Phil could tell he was itching to take off in pursuit._

" _Get me Fury."_

" _ **Hold for transfer."**_

_Phil turned his attention away from the phone and back to Clint._

" _We have no idea which direction he went." He knew that point wouldn't deter Clint and he wasn't disappointed._

" _He might still be in the area. A guy like that would want to make sure no one was left to tie him to this plot." Clint held up the stack of papers detailing the planned hit on the president. "He's gotta be close, Phil. I can feel it."_

_Phil nodded in agreement, his gut telling him the same thing._

" _ **Fury."**_

_Phil held up a finger, silently telling Clint to just hold on for a second._

" _Andrić is dead. McGuire killed him."_

" _ **Where's McGuire now?"**_

" _In the wind, but we think he's close."_

" _ **Turn Barton loose – we both know he'll run him down faster than anybody else could."**_

_Phil nodded, glancing at Clint. He quirked an eyebrow when Clint cocked his head. A breath later, Clint's hand was aborting a movement towards his arm and shoving him in the chest instead. He watched Clint step in front of him, distantly heard the sound of the gunshot, saw Clint's body jerk back a step and then go boneless._

" _CLINT!"_

_The phone clattered to the floor._

_He caught Clint against his chest as the agent fell, pulling him back into the house. His agent's eyes were closed and Coulson cursed when his attention was ripped away as another bullet tore into the wood of the open door. Phil raised his gun, visualizing in his mind where the shot had come from. He thought about the direction Clint had been looking, the angle his body had jerked. He peeked around the door frame to confirm._

_He found Gabriel McGuire standing in an alley across the street, a semi-automatic rifle with a laser sight up at his shoulder. Phil pulled back as a bullet bit into the doorframe – an inch from his head. He spared a single breath to look at Clint, motionless on the ground with a dark stain spreading across the shoulder of his black shirt._

_He forced himself to take a deep breath and then steeled himself. He dove out into the open door way, taking have a second to aim before firing three shots in quick succession. A fourth shot echoed across the street even as McGuire fell back in the alley and Phil felt the burn of the bullet as it creased his right bicep._

_He ignored it, dropped his gun and scrambled to Clint's side, pressing down on the bleeding bullet wound._

" _CLINT!" His barked order demanded attention, but Clint's eyelids didn't even twitch._

_Phil felt his heart hit his throat as he pushed his index and middle finger against the pulse point on Clint's neck. He waited, but the steady thump he was hoping for – that he_ _**needed** _ _– wasn't there._

" _No…"_

_Phil bent over and put his cheek in front of Clint's mouth and nose. The air between them remained still. Phil shook his head in denial, folding his hands over Clint's sternum and starting compressions. He pushed down on Clint's chest thirty times and then tilted his agent's head back and blew two breathes into his still lungs._

" _Come on, kid. Don't do this to me."_

_Phil started compressions again – knew it was wasted. CPR sustained life – it didn't bring it back. But he couldn't stop – wouldn't. His mind replayed the moment Clint was shot back before his eyes. Clint had stepped in front of him, had seen something and pushed Phil back._

_Clint had taken a bullet for him._

_Clint had died for him._

" _No!" Phil nearly growled, his chest tightening painfully and his eyes overflowing with moisture. "You don't get to do this, Clint!"_

_He blew two more breaths, but nothing changed. Clint's skin was growing cold._

" _Clint!"_

* * *

Clint jerked awake, jumping when the papers beneath his face crackled. He blinked owlishly and looked around. The apartment was quiet, just as it had been when he'd laid his head down – just for a few minutes. He squinted at his watch, frowning when he realized he'd slept for almost an hour.

He scrubbed his hand down his face and stretched his back, groaning quietly at the soft pops that cracked through his spine. He returned his attention to the notes on the table and reached for his abandoned pencil.

He pressed the lead to the paper and froze. Slowly, he turned his head to look at Phil, who was sprawled on his back and sleeping deeply – just as he had been when Clint had last glanced at him over an hour ago.

Clint stared at his handler, wondering if he'd imagined the sharp intake of breathe. He nearly jumped when Phil's head jerked to the side and he expelled a sharp breath. Clint stood slowly, shifting cautiously closer.

Phil had told him that he dreamed too – but Clint had never seen it in progress. He wondered if Phil was this disconcerted when he found Clint in a similar state. He swallowed and came closer, debating whether to wake him or not. Licking his suddenly dry lips, Clint crouched. Finally –after another moment of deliberation – he reached for Phil's shoulder.

He nearly had a heart attack when Phil jack-knifed as soon as he touched him, latching onto the front of Clint's shirt with one hand and onto his forearm with the other.

"Jesus…" Clint gasped, nearly toppling backwards under the sudden assault.

Phil's eyes were clenched shut – and his breathing was painfully ragged. Clint swallowed again.

"Phil…" He didn't know what to say. How the  _hell_  did Phil always know what to say when the situation was reversed? Clint could only stare in wide eyed shock as Phil gasped for breath, his hands bruising Clint's forearm and wrinkling his shirt.

"Clint?"

Phil's surprisingly lucid eyes were suddenly focused on him and Clint could only nod. His level of surprise and confusion rose when Phil suddenly looked away – everything about his expression shutting down – locking Clint out.

So  _that_  was what that felt like.

Clint suddenly understood why Phil got so mad when he did the same thing. It was beyond frustrating – and in its own way, it  _hurt._ Clint's reaction to hurt had always been anger, but he knew that wouldn't help the situation right now so he pushed it away and forced his tone to be calm – even if it did carry a measure of uncertainty in it as well.

"What was it about?" He asked carefully.

Phil's grip on Clint's arm tightened and the archer resisted the urge to wince. For a moment he thought Phil was going to just spill it all right there – as Clint had done so many times when the situation was reversed.

And then Phil shook his head.

"Nothing, I'm fine."

On second thought…anger seemed like a pretty good option. He couldn't believe, after  _everything_ they'd been through, that Phil couldn't bring himself to be honest with him. And suddenly he was beyond being just pissed and hurt – he was offended too.

He jerked his arm out of Phil's grip – didn't miss the flash of panic in his handler's eyes before that, too, was hidden. Just further proof that Phil was lying to him.

"Fuck you, Phil."

Phil's eyes widened.

"Excuse me?" Now Phil was angry, too.  _Good._  Maybe now he'd be honest with him.

"Three years of you forcing me to lay my nightmares out for you and now  _you're_  gonna hold out on  _me?"_

"Clint, it's not your problem. Nothing you need to worry about."

"Not my problem?" Clint's anger took over and bled into his tone as he pushed himself to his feet. "That's a hell of a thing for you to say. After Croatia – after all of that shit we both went through, after everything you lectured me on – you think you get to sit there and tell me this isn't my problem?" Clint turned away and headed back to the table. "Yeah, well, you can go to hell."

He froze halfway there when Phil's voice – cracking with emotion – finally sounded.

"You were dead."

Clint turned around to see Phil pushing himself to his feet, his face a confusing mix of anger, frustration – and fear.

"You wanted to know? Fine. Here it is – I dreamed that you died. And it's not the first time."

"What?"

Of all the things he expected Phil to confess, this wasn't even on the list. He realized with startling clarity that it should have been. After what Phil told him in Vienna, it should have been right at the very top. He didn't get a chance to continue his line of thought before Phil suddenly went on.

"Why does this come as a shock to you? I told you I dreamed about this stuff too – what? You think you're the only one whose subconscious twists what happened into the worst possible outcome? Did you think you had the corner on that market? You have losing your bow – I have losing you."

Clint opened his mouth to interject, but Phil was on a roll and plowed on before Clint could get a word out – making the archer scowl.

"Did you not hear anything I told you in Vienna?"

"Of course I did." Clint felt his temper flaring again. He got a distinct feeling that he was being scolded. For  _what,_ he wasn't sure.

"Then why do you still look like this is news to you? Like you're somehow shocked that you would mean enough to me that losing you is  _literally_ my worst nightmare?"

"That's not..." Clint growled in frustration when Phil interrupted him. If this was what it was like to argue with  _him_ when he got on a roll, he suddenly pitied Phil for the last three years.

"That's not what, Clint? That's not what this is about?"

Clint let his anger loose once again, if only to get through Phil's stubborn head. Goddamn it, they were too much alike sometimes.

"No, goddamn it – it's  _not!_ And if you would shut up for half a second and let me get a word in, you'd see that!" Clint spun on his heel and stalked towards the kitchen.

"Where are you going?" Phil demanded sharply – but with more confusion than anger.

"To make some damn coffee!" Clint practically ripped open the top of the coffee maker and started the process to brew a new pot. "Cuz something tells me we aren't getting any more sleep tonight." He muttered the last part to himself as more of an outlet for his frustration than anything. He slammed the lid to the coffee machine closed and braced his hands on the counter. He sensed Phil move into the small kitchen and then drop into one of the seats at the table with a sigh.

Phil rubbed a hand across his face and blew out a breath, raising his eyes to take in the set of Clint's shoulders. His charge was pissed –  _that_ much was obvious. Phil just wasn't sure why. He also wasn't sure why he'd flown off the handle when he'd seen surprise register in Clint's gaze when he admitted what his dream had been about.

He wouldn't have even admitted that if Clint hadn't gotten in a huff and told him to fuck off. Phil still couldn't figure out what had spurred...

His train of thought was abruptly severed when Clint spoke – in that soft-spoken, terrifying tone that gave away how truly angry he was.

"That's not my worst possible outcome."

Phil blinked.  _Huh?_

Clint turned, leaning back against the counter and crossing his arms over his chest.

"Losing my bow," he explained. "That's not my worst possible outcome and it kinda pisses me off that you think is."

Phil sighed. He knew where this was going.

"I dream that  _you_  died, that I wasn't fast enough to get between you and the bullet. You  _know_ that."

Phil put up a placating hand. He  _did_ know – he'd found Clint on the rooftop of the SHIELD base more than a few times due to that dream over the past four months.

"I know, kid. I was just..." he searched for the right word, "ranting."

Clint made a face that told Phil  _that_ was next on the docket.

"Yeah … about  _that._ " Clint's eyebrow arched. "What the hell?"

"You started it." Phil winced at his own childishness in that response.

Clint rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, okay but you lied to me – so I could argue that  _you_ started it."

And Phil suddenly understood what this had all been about.

Clint shook his head and turned to retrieve two coffee cups. He scooped sugar by the spoonful into his and then poured the fresh coffee into both cups. He turned back to Phil and set the all-black coffee onto the table in front of his handler with a crack.

"So?" Clint dropped into the other chair and glared across the table. "Why'd you try and keep this from me? Why did you  _lie_ to me?"

Phil sighed and wrapped his hands around his coffee cup.

"For a lot of reasons, Clint."

"Pick one." Clint's tone was darkly quiet again and Phil hated that he'd caused that.

"For starters, it's humiliating." He watched Clint silently mouth the final word almost angrily as he went on. "And I let that influence me."

"You think I don't know that? You think I don't  _feel_ that every time you have to pull me out of one of mine?" Clint gestured angrily towards his own cot.

"I know you do, but it's not the same."

"How the  _hell_ is it not the same?" Clint demanded in a tone that indicated he thought the idea was ridiculous.

"Because it..." Phil trailed off and shook his head. He didn't know how to put it into words – to tell Clint that a parent didn't tell their kid about their nightmares. It was his job to protect Clint, not add to the weight he carried.

"Because it  _what?"_ Clint snapped.

"Because it's not supposed to work that way!" Phil couldn't help but snap the response back. Clint had always managed to bring out emotion in him, even when he could do without it. He watched confusion flash across Clint's eyes.

"What way?" At least the anger wasn't as obvious anymore – the tone still quiet, but not carrying nearly the deadly weight it had moments ago.

Phil rubbed a hand across his face. Clint wasn't going to let this go. He rarely did once he latched onto something. His stubbornness was one of his best – and worst – qualities.

"It's my job to protect you." He finally started his confession quietly, but then he shook his head – that wasn't right. "It's not a  _job_  – it's … who I am." He could feel the weight of Clint's stare and raised his own eyes to meet the familiar stormy gaze – it was carrying its usual intensity with something more that Phil couldn't quite identify. "I'm supposed to worry about  _you_ – not the other way around. Kid, you carry so much already. If I could keep from adding to that, you have to know I would. I would always do whatever it took to protect you, even just from that."

Clint sat back slowly, his gaze dropping briefly down to the papers still strewn across the table and his hands curling loosely around his cooling coffee mug.

"Protect me."

He repeated the words so quietly Phil almost didn't hear them. His blue-gray eyes rose again, settling on Phil. And this time there wasn't any anger. Instead, a swirl of emotions were there – starting with understanding and overwhelming gratefulness and ending with the measure of affection Clint reserved only for Phil.

"You've always been good at that – protecting me." Clint's lips quirked in mild amusement. "And it's not like I made that easy."

Phil smiled, relieved to see the familiar sense of humor making an appearance.

"Yeah," he agreed with Clint's assessment, "but that's what made it worth the effort."

Clint's smirk shifted to a brief, but genuine, smile and then he went on more seriously,

"When I was eighteen, I needed that. I needed someone to protect me."

Phil had a sudden memory of an eighteen-year-old Clint sitting on the catwalks of the SHIELD base after managing to get a concussion on a training mission. It had been the first time he'd looked at Clint and seen nothing but an eighteen-year-old kid. Even Clint's eyes had been young in that moment – hadn't carried the weight they usually did. He had been so young back then, so  _broken_ , Phil had stepped into the role of protector without hesitation and along the way it had become part of who he was.

"But I'm not eighteen anymore. I don't you need to protect me from everything."

But that didn't mean Phil didn't want to try.

Phil took in the sight of the 21 year old sitting across from him. Exhaustion lined his features – he'd been awake for too many hours – but even so his eyes were still sharp and intense and they still said so much without Clint having to say a word. His posture, though relaxed and equally exhausted, still nearly hummed with unspent energy. Some things hadn't changed in the last three years.

But some things had. Back then, Clint's eyes would have held a darkness – a hopelessness. They would have looked lost. Maybe that darkness was still there – Phil could see it now – but that hopelessness was gone, and so was the look of being lost. Clint had found his way – his purpose – at SHIELD, with Phil.

So Phil acknowledged that Clint may have a point – his agent had come a very long way in three years. He wasn't a kid anymore. Hell, maybe he never really had been.

"And you don't corner the market on worrying."

The kid was really hitting hard today – wasn't pulling any punches. But then again, Phil couldn't remember a time Clint had ever pulled any punches.

"I'm only asking you to do what you always ask me to do – be honest. To  _trust_  me."

That was so far from what this was about and Phil knew he needed to explain himself – because the hurt he could hear in his agent's voice hurt _him._ This wasn't about trust.

"I trust you, Clint. But I also know you." Phil sighed and pushed his hand through his hair. "You're going to take this to heart and you're going to carry it around. I don't want you to have to do that."

Clint fell silent his gaze growing contemplative. Phil knew a moment before Clint spoke – when those eyes flashed with a familiar fire – that he wasn't going to win this fight.

"You've been telling me for years now that I'm not alone anymore – that I don't have to carry all my shit by myself." Clint paused, fixing Phil with a heavy look. "That goes both ways."

Phil dipped his head slightly in agreement and the motion turned into nod.

"Okay."

Clint nodded in return and blew out a breath.

"So," he raised his eyebrows expectantly, "wanna tell me about it?"

Phil sighed deeply and looked down at his coffee.

"It started after the Andes."

He raised his eyes again to meet Clint's surprised gaze.

"That long ago?"

Phil nodded.

"What do you remember? About that night after I pulled you from that cell?"

Clint shrugged his right shoulder.

"About  _that_ night – not much – not anything really."

"Yeah, well, you were pretty far gone." Phil paused, and met Clint's eyes again. "I remember thinking I was watching you die – slowly and painfully – and not being able to stop it." He watched Clint's eyes darken as he went on. "I remember praying to anybody that would listen that you would just make it through the night. Watching you hallucinate that your brother was trying to stab you." Phil sighed and shook his head. "It pretty much started there."

Clint waited, sensing there was more to come.

"Sometimes you die right there in front of me and sometimes I'm not fast enough – and you die  _alone_  in that cell," Phil frowned slightly. "I think that one's worse."

Clint swallowed, taking a moment to process everything. Then a thought – more like a memory – hit him.

"Cairo."

Phil's eyes flashed with pain just at the mention of that mission.

"You thought I was dead."

"Your comms going out after an explosion and then a body matching your description being found in the rubble made it pretty hard to deny."

"But I wasn't dead – I got away from those assholes and you were there when I broke into the safe house in the middle of the night."

"That doesn't stop me from dreaming that it  _was_ you they pulled out of the blast wreckage. That I had to take you home and bury you. Or worse, that you never escaped from them and I never even knew you needed my help."

Clint chewed hard on the inside of his lip and looked away, blinking away moisture he would never let fall. How had he never realized what all those close calls had done to Phil?

He turned his eyes back to his handler.

"I'm sorry."

"Clint…" Phil shook his head.

"No." Clint refused to be absolved. "I'm  _sorry_. For never noticing what it did to you."

"It's not your job to..."

"Stop – just stop." Clint held up a hand. "Cut it out with this  _'it's not your job to worry about me'_ shit." He leaned forward and pinned Phil under a gaze that demanded full attention. "This is a two-way street. We look out for  _each other_. We worry about  _each other. That's_  the way it's supposed to be, you got that?"

Phil blinked and then nodded. Even ground – he could handle that.

That's when it hit him – the memory of a conversation not so long ago on a rooftop in Vienna where he'd walked away believing that Clint finally saw himself on even ground with Phil and the rest of the world. And now it turned out that it was Phil that hadn't learned the lesson he should have – and it had taken the stubborn tenacity of his hard-headed 21 year old to hammer the very same message home.

Clint just watched him for a long moment and then nodded in return, swallowing another gulp of coffee. Then almost as if on cue, the archer's stomach growled.

"God, I'm hungry."

Phil smiled. Clint and his food. Some things would never change.

"It's three o'clock in the morning," Phil pointed out even as he stood to retrieve his shoes.

Clint smirked.

"I know a great 24-hour pastry place."

* * *

End of Chapter 3

Shout out to  **Kylen** for suggesting I actually SHOW Phil's nightmare for once :) You can thank her for it actually appearing in the story!You all know by now how I feel about reviews :)

Here's your preview :)

* * *

_Long, flowing wavy red hair was cascading down the nearly-bare back of a slender woman in a deep green dress. Clint cocked his head slightly to the left, unable to help but enjoy the view. He heard her laugh, watched her lightly touch the man she was talking to on the arm, and then turn and start casually in their direction._

_Clint froze mid-chew._

_No fucking way._


	4. Heaven's Gates Won't Open Up For Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> As always - thanks to Kylen my amazing beta ;)
> 
> And special thanks to writtergirl15 for being my awesome French translator :) she had A LOT to translate and she did an amazing job!
> 
> Enjoy!

  
_Every step toward the goal of justice requires sacrifice, suffering, and struggle; the tireless exertions and passionate concern of dedicated individuals._   
**_Martin Luther King, Jr._ **   


* * *

Clint rolled his shoulders, missing the feeling of his quiver across his back. He'd been on ops without it before, but it stung a little sharper these days to leave it behind. He'd fought too hard to get it back to be happy now without its familiar weight across his shoulders.

It didn't help that he was in a damned tux.

He reached to pull slightly at the collar of his black dress shirt, wishing – not for the first time – that cargos and a black t-shirt were "gala appropriate". He'd been told decidedly by Phil that they were  _not_. No amount of witty reasoning had swayed the older agent on his opinion.

"I feel like it's strangling me."

" _It's not strangling you."_  He could imagine Phil's eye roll as he replied. It made him grin slightly.

"It's cutting off the blood flow to my brain – I can feel it."

" _I'd consider being concerned if you had anything up there of actual value."_

Clint's grin turned into a smirk.  _Point: Coulson._

"I still think you tied the damned bow tie too tight."

" _If you would learn to tie one yourself, you could make sure that didn't happen."_

"I  _asked_  you to teach me."

" _Yes, after we were already running ten minutes late because you_ _ **had**_ _to go for a run."_

Clint tilted his head in acquiescence even though Phil couldn't see him.

"I'll be early next time," he promised even though he had no intention of wearing one of these monkey suits ever again – at least not willingly.

" _You say that like you have reason to wear tuxes all the time. This is the_ _ **first**_ _time you've had to wear one since you started working at SHIELD."_

Clint rolled his eyes. Once was too many times in his opinion. Especially when he had his body armor on underneath – which made everything just uncomfortably warm.

Moreau's assistant, Juliette, appeared at the top of the stairs and gave him a nod. Clint's smirk immediately vanished and he nodded back. He reached for his left ear, tapping the black comm tucked in his ear canal and opening the line to the security team.

"Amenez la voiture de Monsieur Moreau à mon signal." He primed the rest of the security detail in their native language. They were all with the SUV they'd be traveling in, waiting for his instructions. They'd taken to 'waiting for his instructions' easily as soon as he'd joined the team. He suspected it had something to do with two of their numbers ending up with a collection of concussions and broken noses and hands, but he hadn't pursued it further. He didn't much care  _why_  they listened to him as long as they  _did_.  _(Bring Monsieur Moreau's car around on my mark.)_

He'd gotten a few odd looks when he requested the car be held in the garage until Moreau was ready to step into it. It came down to him not wanting the car unattended for even a second – just in case. He also didn't want it idling in front of the house for too long and giving someone an easy target to bead in on.

He tapped the comm once more – switching off the transmission with the team. Phil could still hear him when he talked to the team, but the team couldn't hear him when he wanted to talk just to Phil.

"Moreau's moving – we're about to exit the house."

" _Copy that."_

Clint straightened when Moreau appeared at the top of the stairs. The man was decked out in an expensive tuxedo and came trotting down the stairs like he didn't have a care in the world.

"Ah regarde-toi mon ami. Tu as été voir Marcel, n'est-ce pas?" Moreau smiled widely, eying Clint's all-black tuxedo.  _(_ _Ah, look at you, my friend. You went to Marcel, didn't you?)_

"En effet."  _(I did.)_

"Je te l'avais dis, Marcel est le meilleur tailleur de la ville."  _(I told you, Marcel is the finest tailor in the city.)_

Clint nodded as he met Moreau at the bottom of the stairs. He tapped his earpiece.

"Apportez la voiture de Monsieur Moreau." He spoke calmly, motioning Moreau towards the door. "Par ici Monsieur Moreau." _(Bring Monsieur Moreau's car around...This way, Monsieur Moreau.)_

Moreau smiled and waved a scolding finger at Clint.

"Tu as la tête dure, cher ami. Combien de fois dois-je te demander de m'appeler Henri?" _(You are a tough nut to crack, my friend. How many times must I tell you to call me Henri?)_

Clint smirked a little, his eyes twinkling mischievously, and he purposefully ignored the question.

"Par ici Monsieur Moreau." He put a little extra emphasis in the name just to rub it in.  _(Right this way, Monsieur Moreau.)_

Moreau's eyes narrowed and he chuckled a little at the teasing glint in Clint's eyes.

"Ah, tu vas finir par m'appeler Henri avant que tout ça soit terminé." Moreau issued the challenge with a smile and Clint allowed himself a small smile in return. He paused at the front door, motioning Moreau to do the same.  _(Oh, I will get you to call me Henri before this is all over.)_

"Nous sortons. Rencontrez-nous à la porte."He issued the instruction crisply and waited for confirmation before pulling the door open. The trip to the car was made swiftly with Moreau walled between no less than six men all the way to the SUV.  _(We're coming out. Meet us at the door.)_

When they were safely inside, Clint directed the men to go to the second SUV that would be leading the way. Clint really didn't expect anyone to make a move while they were in transit. There were too many uncontrollable variables when a mark was on the move.

Clint settled back in his seat and started scanning the streets around them anyway, occasionally glancing up to rooftops. He turned part of his attention back to Moreau when the man started speaking in his normal genial, conversational manner.

"Tell me, Monsieur Sinclair, how is it that a young man such as yourself becomes so…" he puzzled over the right word, " _well practiced_  in the protection business."

Clint shot the man a glance, somehow unsurprised by intelligent and knowing gleam in the security councilman's eyes. Clint eyed him more thoroughly, gauging how much he should be truthful about. He finally quirked his lips in a half grin.

"Made some choices when I was in my teens. Those choices set me on a path."

Not a lie – but not quite the entire truth. Moreau nodded as if he were somehow hearing everything Clint wasn't saying.

"Our choices have a way of doing that," he replied sagely.

Clint tilted his head in acknowledgement and Moreau went on.

"And yet how often do we think of that path when we make the choices we make?"

"Less often than we should," Clint replied with a rueful quirk to his lips. Moreau nodded. "But your job, you make choices that can change lives. How do you know you're making the right one?"

"I don't always. In the end, I make my choice based on what I believe is right and sometimes that sets my path in less desirable directions."

"Like now."

Moreau nodded.

"How do you make that choice? When you know that there's someone trying to have you killed because of what you believe – what you support."

"Let me ask you this," Moreau titled his head a bit. "In your job, you are tasked with protecting people, no matter the cost."

Clint dipped his head once.

"You willingly and knowingly put yourself in danger for your job. What I am doing is no different. It is my job to help the Security Council come to the right decision."

Clint nodded, unable to keep a little bit of the awe he was feeling for Moreau out of his eyes. He was used to danger – to being in the line of fire. Moreau wasn't and still the man was unmoved. He would still do what was right.

"You're a brave man, Monsieur Moreau. I've known men in more powerful positions to back down for less reason."

And Clint had. He'd seen leaders of countries back down in the face of threats – threats Clint later eliminated.

"You are very kind, my friend. But it is no more than should be expected of any man in a position of leadership."

"If only every leader shared that opinion." Clint shook his head ruefully.

Moreau watched him thoughtfully for a moment and Clint got the sense the conversation was about to turn back onto him.

"So I went to that café you recommended by the river."

Moreau's eyes narrowed at the subject change, but he allowed it.

"And what did you think?"

Clint's expression shifted in an unimpressed fashion.

"It was good – but the best place I've eaten in Paris is a little place a few blocks from the tower."

Clint watched curiously as Moreau's expression lit up.

"I knew it!"

Clint arched an eyebrow.

"After all of the discussions about food we've had in the past few days, I was testing you."

"Testing me." Clint repeated the words with a hint of surprise.

"Indeed. I knew if you truly appreciated local cuisine as you claimed – you would know that the place you spoke of  _is_  the best in the city."

"So I passed?"

"Yes, and now you are truly a real connoisseur of French cuisine."

Clint didn't know why, but he was ridiculously proud in that moment. His earpiece crackled to life as the security team announced they were thirty seconds out from the hotel the gala was hosted in.

"Okay, you don't leave my sight the entire night. You want a drink, we go to the bar together. You want to talk to a girl, I stand at your shoulder. You have to pee, I go with you, understood?"

Moreau nodded agreeably. They'd been over this before, Clint knew, but he couldn't help but hammer it all home once more.

"If at any point I tell you to do something, you do it – no questions. Understood?"

"Yes, my friend, I understand."

Clint nodded, blew out a breath, opened the line with the security team and started addressing them in their own language.

"Je veux Andler et Bastian à l'entrée Est, Beaudoin et Hulette à l'arrière, Lancto et Pinard à l'entrée et Ramey, Prevost, Theroux et Verdier dans la salle principale. Bougez à vos positions respective dès que Moreau sera à l'intérieur. Confirmez."

_(I want Andler and Bastian at the east entrance, Beaudin and Hulette at the back, Lancto and Pinard at the front, and Ramey, Prevost, Theroux, and Verdier in the main room. Move to your positions as soon as we get Moreau inside. Confirm.)_

He listened as the entire team confirmed his directive one by one. He rolled his shoulders as the SUV pulled to a stop.  _Game time._  He pushed the door open and stepped out first, scanning the crowd with his eyes quickly before turning to watch Moreau step out. He fell in a step behind and to the left of the man as they made their way inside. He saw the members of the security team disperse to their various assignments as soon as they hit the doorway.

Clint followed Moreau across the lobby of the large hotel and into the ballroom. The brightly lit and elegantly decorated room was already consumed by a low roar of conversation. Clint's eyes were scanning faces immediately, searching for possible threats. He stuck a step behind and to the left of Moreau as the man moved through the room, greeting the other guests amicably. Moreau was by no means the most important person in the room, and neither was he the only one with a security team. Clint wasn't sure yet if the presence of other personal security teams was going to help or hinder.

After nearly forty minutes of making the rounds, Clint was sure Moreau had greeted and talked personally with more people than Clint had ever spoken to in his lifetime. Just when he was certain Moreau couldn't  _possibly_  know any more people, a middle-aged man stepped up to the podium set up on the small stage.

The nearly ten-minute-long welcome speech that followed served as the perfect opportunity for Clint to scan for any new arrivals. A whole new set of faces were memorized and analyzed by the time the speech ended and Moreau was on the move again.

Clint perked up when he realized where the man was headed.

The hors d'oeuvres table.

"Thank god." He murmured the words too quietly for anyone around him to hear. But they weren't meant for anyone in this room.

" _Let me guess…time for food."_

The corner of Clint's mouth quirked. He'd turned off the line to the security team shortly after they'd entered the ballroom. He could still hear them, they couldn't hear him. It made it easier to talk with Phil without interference.

"I've been eying the table since we walked in."

" _Remember, you're not a guest."_

Clint scowled inwardly, though his expression remained impassive.

"Now you're just being mean."

He thought he might have heard Phil chuckle a little. They reached the table and Clint played at being polite at first, hanging back at Moreau's shoulder as the man sampled different things. A slight smirk lit his face when his charge almost abruptly extended a well-laden plate to him.

"Mon ami, tu es terrible à faire semblant d'être quelque chose que tu n'es pas."  _(My friend, you are terrible at pretending to be something you are not.)_

Clint blinked at him blankly, suddenly wondering if Moreau had figured out his act – figured out that he was the opposite of the body guard he claimed to be. But a moment later Moreau smiled and continued, and Clint breathed a silent sigh of relief.

"Il est évident que tu veux goûter à tous les plats, n'insinue pas le contraire."  _(It is obvious that you want to try all of the food, stop pretending you don't.)_

Clint allowed himself a slight smile.

" _Someone should tell him you_ _ **always**_ _look like a puppy begging for table scraps when there's food around."_

Clint barely kept himself from rolling his eyes and only just kept the full weight of his usual sarcasm out of his next words.

"Quelqu'un doit bien démontrer son appréciation pour la cuisine locale."  _(Somebody needs to show some appreciation for the local cuisine.)_

" _And you're that someone, I take it?"_

Clint smirked. Damn right he was; any food, any country.

"Et qui de mieux placé que toi, mon ami." Moreau held the plate out demonstratively. _(And who better than you, my friend.)_

"Si tu insistes."  _(If you insist.)_

"Tu réponds comme si tu avais besoin que j'insiste. Nous savons tous les deux que tu cherches uniquement à gagner du temps." _(You say that like you need me to insist. We both know you were just biding your time.)_

Clint smirked and took the plate. He watched Moreau turn at the sound of his name and began to casually munch on his freshly-acquired snacks. He'd just started in on his second gougeres – a fancy French way of saying cheese puff – when he saw the shock of red.

His gaze shifted to focus on what had just been a flash in his peripheral. Long, flowing wavy red hair was cascading down the nearly-bare back of a slender woman in a deep green dress. Clint cocked his head slightly to the left, unable to help but enjoy the view. He heard her laugh, watched her lightly touch the man she was talking to on the arm, and then turn and start casually in their direction.

Clint froze mid-chew.

_No fucking way._

He reached to tap on his link to the security team even as he put the plate on the table to be forgotten.

"J'ai un visuel sur l'assassin. Cheveux roux, robe verte, à deux heures."  _(I've got the assassin in my sights. Red hair, green dress, at my two o'clock.)_

"Je la vois." Clint recognized Theroux's deep voice.  _(I see her.)_

"Directives?" This time, it was Ramey.  _(Orders?)_

"Verdier, Ramey, Theroux, and Prevost, protégez Moreau. Je vais à sa rencontre."  _(Verdier, Ramey, Theroux, and Prevost, collapse in on Moreau. I'm moving to intercept her.)_

" _Do you have an ID?"_

Clint didn't have time to answer Phil as he stepped to Moreau's side. He lightly touched his arm, carefully positioning himself between his charge and the threat. The man seemed to sense the sudden edge to Clint's demeanor and quickly ended his conversation in order to give Clint his full attention.

"J'ai besoin que tu t'éloignes de moi, vers Ramey."  _(I need you to walk away from me, towards Ramey.)_

He never took his eyes off the target, watched her casually draw closer, seeming to peruse the various foods on the table. She was close enough now that he could take three steps forward and reach out and touch her.

"Maintenant."  _(Do it now.)_  He punctuated the command with a little nudge backwards even as he turned and stepped towards the assassin. His eyes scanned for a weapon as he drew closer, analyzing every fold in her dress, every curve of her body. He saw the flash of the small blade just as he came within reach.

His hand flashed out and he snagged her wrist – twisting sharply until her grip on the knife slackened. Even as the blade fell she was reacting. The heel of her left hand slammed into his short ribs and she twisted her right wrist in his grip, trying to free herself.

Her head whipped towards him, eyes flashing. Clint met her sharp green gaze unflinchingly.

For a split second they both just stared, eyes locked in a battle of wills over who would blink first.

Then Clint was ducking an elbow and spinning around behind her, forcing the wrist he still held captive up and behind her back. She rolled with it – literally. She threw her body up and over both of their arms – untwisting her own arm and putting them face to face again.

If Clint hadn't been absolutely sure in that moment that she was a deadly killer, he would have been impressed with the athleticism of the move – especially considering she was in three-inch heels and an evening dress.

A lifetime of pulling back a bowstring had made his grip like iron and even with all the movement in the last few seconds his grip hadn't faltered. He saw a flash of annoyance in her eyes even as she turned away from him. Then he was over her shoulder and slamming onto his back between her and Moreau, who had already moved a few steps away from them.

Clint dragged a breath back into his body as he rolled to his hands and knees, seeing a flash of green as she shifted her dress slit aside and reached for something on her thigh. He launched himself towards Moreau without a second thought.

He heard the discharge of the gun just as his body hit Moreau's and felt the impact of the bullet on his back a fraction of a breath later. They hit the ground with matching gasps just as the room erupted in screams of chaos.

Pain.

That was all Clint could process for a long moment – pain worse than he'd been expecting. All the air left his lungs in a rush and for a horrifying second he was certain the bullet had torn straight through his body armor and into his body.

And then his body sharply inhaled, dragging air back inside it. His lungs expanded with only a slight hitch and he knew the armor had done its job – at least most of its job. With that inhalation he felt the bullet shift where it had lodged halfway through the armor, burrowed partially into his back.

The pain swelled again and for a moment Clint couldn't move.

He had a bullet in his back.

Phil was going to shit kittens.

Clint forced his lungs – struck abruptly empty too many times in the last thirty seconds – to draw in a breath as he looked over his shoulder in time to see green and red disappearing into the panicked crowd. He vaguely heard Phil demanding information, but spoke over him to the team.

"Barricadez toutes les sorties." He barked the order even as he gasped his way to his hands and knees.  _(Lock down the exits.)_

" _Hawk – report!"_

"Ça va?"  _(Are you all right?)_

Clint couldn't respond to either Phil or Moreau as he staggered to his feet and nearly went back down when the world spun. He felt a hand lock onto his elbow but he shook it off.

"Quelqu'un a un contact visuel sur elle?" he demanded, forcing Moreau – who was reaching to support him again – towards Ramey.  _( _Anybody have eyes on her?)__

"Monsieur Sinclair…" Moreau's eyes were wide and concerned and Clint wondered if he looked as shaken as he felt.

"Je vais bien!" He snapped out the assurance with more force than was necessary, but he couldn't bring himself to care as he started pushing through the crowd in the direction he'd seen her flee.  _(I'm fine.)_

" _Answer me, Goddamnit!"_

Clint reached for his comm, intending to tap off the line with the team to answer Phil. He couldn't announce over an open comm who they were dealing with – the last thing he needed was the security team to panic.

A voice burst over the line before he was able to complete the action.

"Monsieur Sinclair, je crois que je l'ai vu sortir par une des fenêtres du côté est."  _(Monsieur Sinclair, I think I saw her go out one of the east windows.)_

"Bien reçu, ne faites RIEN. Je suis en chemin."  _(Copy that. Do NOT engage. I'm on my way.)_

Clint shouldered his way past a group of crying women and pushed past Bastian into the side alley, pulling his gun from its holster at his shoulder. He scanned the area and caught a glimpse of green disappearing around the corner at the main road.

He sprinted after it. He heard an engine rev just as he approached the corner and had to skid to a stop to avoid the silver Aston Martin that sped past him. He raised his gun, firing at the car as it grew farther away. The last thing he saw before one of his bullets took out the side view mirror was a flash of green eyes.

The car skidded around the corner and disappeared. Clint let the gun fall to his side, realizing for the first time that he was gasping for breath.

"Mettez Moreau dans l'auto. Je vous rencontrerais à l'entrée principale. Elle est partie." _(Get Moreau to the car – I'll meet you at the front. She's gone.)_

He shoved the gun back into its hidden shoulder holster and tapped off the line with the team.

"Overwatch…"

" _Tell me what the hell is going on!"_

"The assassin," Clint tried to steady his breathing, "it's Natasha Romanoff. Phil, it's the fucking Black Widow."

" _Holy shit."_

Clint doubled and braced his hands on his knees.

"Yeah…that's what I said."

* * *

End of Chapter 4

I know - I know - its shorter than the others. This is actually the shortest chapter of the entire story lol. Just hang with me though lol - there is a LOT of awesome headed your way lol.

Here's your preview!

* * *

"The assassin is Natasha Romanoff." Phil revealed the news bluntly – Fury never appreciated beating around the bush. There was a long silence over the line before the director responded.

_"You have **got**  to be kidding me."_


	5. With These Broken Wings I'm Fallin'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> As always - thanks to Kylen my amazing beta ;)
> 
> And special thanks to writtergirl15 for being my awesome French translator :) 
> 
> Enjoy!

  
_Sacrifice, which is the passion of great souls, has never been the law of societies._   
**_Henri Frederic Amiel_ **   


* * *

" _I want a sit-rep –_ _ **now**_ _."_

Clint pushed his hands off his knees and straightened, blowing out a breath and wincing when his back spasmed in pain.

"Moreau is secure, Romanoff is in the wind."

" _And you?"_

"Took a round to my armor," Clint went on before Phil could get out his response, "but I'm  _fine_."

He could almost visualize Coulson swallowing back the words he wanted to say and forcing himself to stay on task.

" _Go hook up with the team. I'll meet you back at Moreau's."_

Clint let out a sigh, relieved that Phil wasn't going to push the bullet to the vest issue right now. But the archer was under no delusions that his handler wouldn't be addressing that particular issue with vehemence at a later point.

"Copy that." Clint started towards the front of the hotel at a light jog. "Get the house cleared and locked down. I'll let you know when we're close."

A black SUV rolled up to meet him and Clint immediately pulled the back door open and climbed in, already tapping his ear piece to open the line with the security team.

Even as he issued orders to the men – dictating how they would enter the house and where he wanted everyone stationed when they got there – he kept an eye on Moreau. The man's hands were clasped tightly in his lap and he was a few shades paler than he had been at the start of the night, but otherwise he seemed to be holding it together. He watched Clint closely, hanging on every word he spoke to the team. And when Clint finally tapped the ear piece off again, he could sense Moreau was ready to burst with questions.

"So," Clint offered the man a weary grin, "still willing to make the hard choice?"

The question had the effect he'd hoped for. Moreau's posture straightened and some of the panicked uncertainty left his eyes. He even managed a little smirk.

"Always, my friend."

Clint nodded, somehow unsurprised. Moreau swallowed and forced his hands to unclench.

"So who was that?" he asked quietly, flexing his hands and resting them against his thighs.

Clint debated a moment. Telling Moreau the truth would only worry him more, but keeping it from him – when it concerned his safety – just seemed wrong.

"She's a contract assassin that goes by the name 'Black Widow.'"

He watched Moreau pale a few shades more and then clench his jaw.

"You've heard of her." Clint stated it as a fact, instead of a question. Moreau's expression made the answer obvious.

"Just how high  _is_  the price on my head?"

Clint blinked, caught off guard by the question – and the hint of humor in the tone. He hesitated – looking Moreau over carefully – and then answered carefully.

"High enough to draw the wrong kind of attention."

Moreau nodded and looked away briefly.

"Do you think I'm a fool?"

Clint frowned and Moreau went on.

"To be going out to parties when I know there is someone trying to have me killed?" Moreau gave him an apologetic look. "To be putting the men tasked with protecting me in needless danger?"

Clint was silent for a moment, finding the right words.

"I think," he started quietly, "that it's men like you that keep this world from going to hell. And those men protecting you, they do it because you're one of the good guys – so it makes the being in danger part a lot easier."

Moreau held his gaze for heavily for a long moment.

"I don't want anyone to be harmed because of me…"

"Moreau…" Clint tried to interrupt, suddenly thankful he hadn't revealed the extent of the injury to his back.

"I don't want anyone to die for me."

"Henri," Clint called firmly, leaning into the man's line of sight, "I  _will_  stop her."

Moreau pulled up short at the use of his first name and could only nod at the firm promise that followed. Clint nodded in return. He glanced briefly out the window as the house came into view.

"I told you."

Clint turned his blue-gray gaze back to Moreau and arched a questioning eyebrow. He was even more intrigued when Moreau's lips quirked into a triumphant smirk.

"I told you that you would call me Henri before this was all over."

Clint huffed a slight laugh and shook his head in amusement even as he tapped his earpiece to open the line with the team.

"On bouge." _(Let's move.)_

A crowd of men was waiting when Clint pushed the SUV door open. He unabashedly forced Moreau out ahead of him and pushed his head down as the group collapsed around them. They moved as one unit towards the front door. Clint kept his eyes high – thinking like the sniper he was – scanning every rooftop and window he could see, just to be safe.

Only when the front door was closed behind them did he allow Moreau to straighten.

"Prenez vos positions, je veux un homme à chaque entrée."  _(Go to your positions – I want a man at every entry point.)_

The gathered group of men dispersed immediately and Clint turned to Phil, who was speaking in rapid French to the men that had remained behind at the house. As soon as they all dispersed to follow his instructions, Phil zeroed in on him.

"Where did you take the hit?"

Phil was already reaching for him, eyes scanning for any sign of the bullet.

"It's nothing," Clint assured.

He cast a quick glance at Moreau – thinking back on the conversation they'd had just minutes ago. Moreau didn't need to be here for this.

"Vous devriez aller vous reposer, Monsieur."  _(You should go get some rest, Monsieur.)_

Moreau nodded slowly, casting a critical eye over Clint briefly before heading for the stairs. His assistant rushed down the stairs to meet him and immediately started guiding him back the way she'd come.

"Clint," Phil hissed, taking hold of his arm. "Where?"

Clint tossed him an irritated glare and glanced to check Moreau's progress up the stairs.

"Clint." Phil's voice had taken on his usual pissed-off, over-protective tone, so Clint gave him his full attention.

"In my back, left of the spine."

He no sooner had the words out than Phil was forcing him to turn, a hand going to the neat little hole in the expensive fabric of his tuxedo jacket.

"You're a magnet for these things, kid." Phil sighed, brushing his fingers across the hole and shaking his head ruefully. The slight grin that had started to grow on his face faded away when his fingers met something wet. He drew his hand back, jaw clenching at the red painting his fingers.

"Phil…" Clint tried to forestall the man's reaction.

"What the hell is this?"

Clint winced – more from the glare he was getting than the pain from the wound.

"Well, it turns out she's using armor-piercing rounds…"

"Damn it, Clint!"

"What is going on?"

Both of their heads whipped around to Moreau, standing halfway up the stairs staring at them.

"Nothing," Clint insisted.

"Is that blood?" Moreau started back down the stairs, looking to Phil instead of Clint. It had Clint rolling his eyes and grounding out a response.

"I'm  _fine_."

"Let me see your back," Phil demanded in his sharpest, most no-nonsense tone.

Clint really didn't think the handler should have been surprised when it had no effect on him.

"Phil, it didn't go all the way through the armor. I'm  _fine_. I swear."

"You, bullets, and blood  _never_  equal fine, Clint, so you're gonna let me check you out."

Clint rolled his eyes in the most juvenile fashion he could manage.

"Do you need a doctor? I have a friend who could help…" Moreau spoke directly to Phil, but Clint stopped him with a raised palm.

"Thank you for the offer, but I'm okay –  _really._ "

Moreau arched an eyebrow at him and turned his gaze to Phil, eyes questioning.

Clint resisted the urge to growl in frustration – when had he become irrelevant to this conversation?

"I can handle it myself. I've got a first aid kit in my gear." Phil tossed Moreau a grateful smile and then leveled Clint with a glare that warned him what would happen if he argued. Clint rolled his eyes and remained silent.

For a long moment Moreau looked back and forth between them – weighing his own visual assessment of Clint against Phil's assurance. Finally he nodded.

"The first floor guest room has a private bathroom – feel free to make it your own. You will let me know if you change your mind about the doctor or if you need  _anything_."

Phil nodded and Moreau returned the gesture before finally allowing his assistant to pull him towards the stairs once again.

Clint didn't wait for Phil's glare to urge him towards the first floor guest room. Instead he started in the appropriate direction on his own, already pulling at his bowtie. If Phil was going to insist on mother henning – he was doing it on Clint's terms.

He pushed into the guest room and tossed the tie onto the king-sized bed. He was in the middle of gritting his teeth through the removal of his jacket when he heard Phil come into the room and shut the door.

"I was  _trying_ to keep him from feeling guilty. He didn't need to know about this." Clint tossed over his shoulder, grinding out the last word as his back throbbed in pain. A moment later, a black backpack that Clint fondly recognized landed on the bed next to his tie and hands were helping ease the jacket off his shoulders.

"I saw red, kid –  _literally._ So I didn't really give a damn how Moreau felt. I'd ask when  _you_  became so goddamned stubborn – but then I remembered you've always been this way."

Clint huffed out a pained laugh and sighed in slight relief when the jacket joined the tie on the bed. Clint started working on the buttons to his shirt as Phil moved to the backpack to retrieve the well-stocked – and well-worn – first aid kit that they never left home without.

Clint finished the buttons and started to pull off the shirt, raising his gaze to Phil – wondering why it was taking so long to pull the kit out of the backpack. He sighed softly when he saw Phil's eyes locked on the bloodstained and bullet-torn section of the jacket.

"Phil."

Hazel eyes snapped up to his.

"I'm breathing – I'm standing – and I'm planning on staying consistent on both. It's not as bad as you're imagining right now. I swear."

Clint knew his cagey and vague answers about the injury had probably sent Phil's mind into overdrive. Clint didn't always admit to being injured. He would admit readily that he'd lied through his teeth – right to Phil's face – about being hurt on occasion. But when he  _did_  admit it, he was always honest and upfront about the extent of the injury. Phil's imagination would always conjure up a worst-case scenario if he wasn't, like it was doing right now.

"I couldn't be upfront about it while Moreau was there," he explained as Phil moved to help pull the shirt from his shoulders. His black body armor was still strapped snuggle to his torso. "The man had enough to deal with already tonight."

"You take a damned bullet and then try to pass it off with an ' _I'm fine_ …'" Phil shook his head as he circled Clint to get a look at his back. "Goddamn, kid, you can't do anything halfway – not even a protection detail."

Clint smirked, wondering if Phil had teed him up for that on purpose.

"In case you haven't noticed, Phil – I  _did_  do it halfway this time."

Phil looked at the back of Clint's head, then at the bullet – half buried in Clint's back and half visible. Of all inappropriate jokes…

He reached and smacked Clint on the side of the head. He then rolled his eyes when Clint just chuckled.

"I've got to pull that bullet before we can get the armor off."

Clint nodded as Phil walked to the small desk by the window and retrieved the chair. He deposited it next to the bed and flipped open the first aid kit.

"Sit."

Clint did as instructed, flipping the chair around so he could sit in it backwards. He eyed Phil carefully, taking in the tense set to his shoulders, the tightness around his eyes. Time to lighten the moment.

"At least I didn't half  _ass_  the detail. I don't have armor down there and then this situation would be a lot more awkward."

Phil gave him a sideways glare and pulled a pair of tweezers from the kit.

"Oh come on Phil – you can laugh, you know."

"I'm not finding the situation as funny as you are."

"Jesus, Phil, it hit the armor."

"No, it went  _through_  the armor and into your back. Can't you go more than a few months without getting shot?"

Clint twisted to look at his handler over his shoulder, arching an eyebrow at the man's tone.

"What was I supposed to do? Let her kill Moreau?"

"You're supposed to look out for  _yourself_  every now and then." Phil snapped out the reply as he pulled gauze pads from the kit and set them on the bed.

"Not in the job description," Clint tossed back with a flippant wave of his hand.

Phil slammed his hand against the kit, making Clint flinch and the supplies jump.

"Damn it, Clint," Phil snapped only to blow out a frustrated breath before he continued. "Just… _damn it."_  The handler sighed deeply.

Clint blinked and swallowed.

"I didn't…"

"I know," Phil interrupted with another sigh. "It's not your fault, kid."

His fault or not, Clint still felt like an ass for making light of the situation.

"It's just you and bullets…" Phil shook his head, clenching his jaw.

"Yeah." Clint sighed in agreement.

There was a time – not so long ago – where taking a slug to the vest wouldn't have caused this many waves. That it had technically gone  _through_ the vest was neither here nor there.

But that was before Croatia – before everything had shifted perspective.

And now taking a bullet to the vest … it wasn't just taking a bullet to the vest anymore. It was a reminder of everything that had nearly been lost and probably would be for a long time.

"I'm sorry."

And Clint was – sorry that he'd gotten himself shot, that he'd worried Phil, that he'd put them both in a position again to remember things they wanted to forget.

Phil sighed deeply.

"You did your job, kid. What the hell else could I expect you to do?" He paused a beat and then went on. "I'm sorry I jumped down your throat about it."

Clint shrugged.

"Hell, Phil, if you didn't mother hen, then I'd start to think you didn't care."

With that he rolled his neck and blew out a breath.

"Now yank the slug so we can get back to work."

Phil tilted his head in agreement and blew out a deep breath. Clint felt him brace his left hand next to the wound, and close the tweezers around the bullet.

"On three?"

"Just do it."

Phil pulled swiftly and sharply.

"Son of a…" Clint trailed off with a hiss of pain, resisting the urge to pull away.

"Hold this." Phil shoved the tweezers – still holding the bullet – into Clint's hand. Clint frowned at the bullet as Phil immediately started unstrapping the body armor.

"The armor didn't flatten it out."

"Yeah, well – it  _is_  an armor-piercing round," Phil pointed out as he pulled the armor free of Clint's body and tossed it on the bed. He winced as blood started the run freely from the neat, half-inch hole in Clint's back.

"Yeah but it's SHIELD armor – I figured it would have done more damage to the damned thing…all it did was round it out a little bit at the middle."

"You're damn lucky it was SHIELD armor or that bullet would be in your lung."

Phil snatched a few gauze pads off the bed.

"So I guess the last bullet I took did come off with some perks. Got the techs to hit the drawing board and –" Phil pressed the gauze against the wound. "Goddamn it – ow!" Clint squirmed away, half rising from the chair.

"Pressure on what are probably badly bruised ribs might not feel awesome, but it's a necessary evil. Now stop moving."

"Knowing that doesn't make it feel any better," Clint shot back, but he did sit back down.

"You big baby." Phil managed a smirk. "Come on – you're bleeding more than I expected and this is going to get messy. Let's move to the bathroom."

"I thought you told me to  _stop_  moving."

"Since when do you do what I tell you, smart ass? Now move it."

Phil kept firm pressure against the wound as Clint rose. The handler couldn't hold back a wince of his own as he took in the already-darkening bruise spreading across Clint's back around the wound. The tightness of the skin at the corners of Clint's eyes told Phil that the archer was in more pain than his normal complaining was letting on.

Phil reached for the first aid kit and juggled it in one hand while keeping the other firmly pressed against the gauze. He followed Clint into the large bathroom and set the first aid kit on the sink while Clint lowered himself to sit sideways on the closed toilet seat.

Phil turned on the hot water in the sink and closed the drain so it would start to fill. A quick search of the drawers and cabinets – a trick with one hand still pressing the gauze into place – turned up a bar of soap.

"So..."

Phil drew Clint's attention as he pulled away the gauze and yanked a washcloth off the rack on the wall. He wet it in the sink and then scrubbed soap into it. This wasn't going to be pleasant and distracting Clint was his best bet for getting through this as painlessly as possible for both of them.

"What was your take on Romanoff? You get a read on her?"

Clint's jaw clenched painfully as Phil started cleaning the wound, but after a moment he ground out a reply.

"She's ice cold – was more annoyed by my interference than anything. Well trained," he blew out a sharp pained breath and continued, "kicked my ass like it was nothing, adjusted to the loss of the knife as smoothly as if she'd planned for it."

"You sound impressed."

Clint smirked.

"More like intrigued – I mean she  _did_  manage to kick my ass in three inch heels and a dress," the smirk grew and Clint's blue grey eyes twinkled with something that had Phil rolling his eyes, "and made it look easy."

"Do  _not_  tell me you were attracted to her."

Clint held the smirk for just long enough to have Phil resisting the urge to smack him and then he waved away the handler's concern.

"Relax, Phil, she put a bullet in my back. The only thing I'm attracted to is putting an arrow through her heart to return the favor."

Phil huffed a slight laugh and tossed the bloody washcloth directly in the trash. He grabbed a few more gauze pads and pressed them against the wound, watching a muscle in the side of Clint's jaw twitch as he clenched it. He bit back the urge to apologize and instead made sure he was pressing firmly enough to slow the blood flow.

"So if it were you, what would be your next move?" Phil asked, mostly to get Clint's mind redirected away from the pain.

"If it were me," Clint cleared his throat and blew out a breath, "I would have spotted  _me_  and would have taken the distance shot instead of trying to get close."

"Not everybody sees all the pieces like you do, kid. Focus on what you would do  _now_."

"I'd regroup, refocus, and take another shot. And this time, I wouldn't miss."

"You wouldn't just go to ground? Cut your losses?" Phil pulled the edge of the gauze back, saw the wound still bleeding freely, and then quickly pressed it back into place. Clint gritted his teeth and fisted his hands at his thighs.

"That'd be bad for business. You can't just not complete a contract you accept. That's a quick way to get a target on your own back and to never get hired again. No, she'll try to finish the job."

"What's our timeframe?"

"Well if it were me, I'd take a few days. Let the security settle in and give it a chance to relax a little bit. Let them  _think_  I've cut my losses."

Phil nodded and peeled the bandage back. Satisfied that the blood flow had slowed sufficiently, he tossed the soiled bandage in the trash and pulled out a fresh one, spread antibiotic ointment on it, and lined its edges with tape. He pressed it carefully against the sluggishly bleeding wound and smoothed the tape down firmly. His eyes drifted to Clint's left shoulder. Like the just healed joint needed anything to aggravate it.

"Any pain in your shoulder?"

"Phil – there's pretty much pain everywhere right now. If you're asking if my shoulder hurts worse than usual, yeah, it hurts."

"All right," Phil started as he pulled an ice pack from the kit and squeezed it until the interior bag burst. He shook it as it started to immediately cool and went on, "I've got to go update Fury.  _You_  are going to park it on that bed and get some rest."

"But…"

"None of that – you haven't really slept in days and now this. So I'm declaring a time out."

"A time out? What am I – five?"

"That depends … are you going to act like it?" Phil challenged with an eyebrow arched in challenge. He pulled Clint up by the elbow and steered him towards the main room. Clint shot him a comically petulant glare.

"I don't need a nap time, Phil. I need to check in with the team and make sure Moreau is locked down."

"Use your comm to check in with the team and I'll check Moreau. But you're gonna take it easy for a couple hours."

"But…"

"Not a negotiation."

Clint glared and sat on the edge of the bed.

"I'm not agreeing because you told me to. I'm agreeing because I'm tired and this bed is really soft."

Phil rolled his eyes as Clint tapped on his comm. While Clint checked in with the team and issued his orders for the rest of the night, Phil cleared off the bed and pulled back the blankets. He also retrieved a few Ibuprofen from the kit and filled a small cup in the bathroom with water.

"...Appelez-moi sur ma fréquence si quelque chose arrive."  _(…call in on my handheld if anything happens.)_

When Clint tapped off the comm, Phil silently held out his hand.

"You take the Ibuprofen – I'll take the comm."

With an exaggeratedly annoyed eye roll, Clint pulled the comm out of his ear and handed it over. He took the Ibuprofen and tossed it back, chasing it with the water. Then he promptly dug into Phil's bag, pulling out a hand-held radio. He turned it on, shifted to the right channel, and held it up next to his mouth.

"Comm check."

Phil resisted the urge to tap his foot as Clint received confirmation and set the radio on the bedside table. Finally, Clint shifted and stretched out on his stomach. Phil couldn't help but smile a little at the immediate sigh of relief that followed. He dug a t-shirt out of his bag and wrapped it around the ice pack and then carefully positioned it on Clint's back over the worst of the bruising.

Clint groaned quietly, but Phil could see his muscles relaxing. He carefully pulled at the laces of Clint's shoes and eased them off his feet. Clint shifted, burrowing a little farther into the pillows, as Phil pulled the sheet and blanket over his legs. He returned to his bag and pulled one of Clint's Desert Eagles from it. He placed it carefully on the bed next to Clint's pillow and the archer's hand snacked out and slid it under the pillow.

"Thanks, Phil."

Phil smiled and patted Clint's calf.

"I'll be back in a few."

Clint grunted in acknowledgement and Phil headed out of the room, flipping off the light and pulling the door closed behind him. He flipped open his phone and walked towards the front entryway – the most private setting available at the moment. He dialed Fury's private line quickly and pressed the phone to his ear.

" _Fury."_

"We've got a new development."

" _I'm listening."_

"The assassin is Natasha Romanoff." Phil revealed the news bluntly – Fury never appreciated beating around the bush. There was a long silence over the line before the director responded.

" _You have_ _ **got**_ _to be kidding me."_

Phil sighed.

"I wish I were. Clint ID'ed her himself."

" _It's never the easy way with your boy, Phil."_ Fury sighed deeply.  _"He still in one piece?"_

"More or less." Phil rubbed his free hand across his eyes. God he was tired.

" _Well don't keep me in suspense – what the hell happened?"_

"She made a move at the gala – just like Clint predicted. He was able to head her off, but she's in the wind."

" _Moreau?"_

"Alive and secure."

" _And Barton?"_

"Took an armor-piercing round to his vest."

" _Jesus."_

"Thank God the techs made those improvements or this would be a very different conversation."

" _He fit to stay in the field?"_

Phil paused, mind whirring.

"He's fit to stay on Moreau if that's what you're asking."

" _It's not."_

"You think the Council will send him for her." It wasn't a question, and Phil was afraid he already knew the answer.

" _I'm damned certain of it."_ Fury let out a low growl that matched the frustration Phil was feeling.  _"We've been trying to get a bead on her for months, Phil. This is the first break we've had and we can't afford to waste it. You know Barton is the only one up for the job. Hell, you've said as much."_

"Director…" Phil stopped himself from arguing. It was the overprotective side of him reacting right now – wanting to protect Clint from facing someone like Natasha Romanoff. The logical, work-focused part of him forced its way to the forefront. If the Council made the call to go after Romanoff, Clint was the only option. He was the only one in the entire network that actually stood a chance against her.

Fury sighed again.

" _I know, Phil."_

Phil wondered if Fury was thinking back over the last four months of watching Clint claw his way back from the edge. Phil certainly was. He wondered if Fury was questioning whether Clint was up for this. Phil hated to admit it, but he definitely was.

What was the point of the battle Clint had fought to get back to where he was if he was going to be forced into the most deadly mission of his career before he was ready? It could be a death sentence.

" _Look, I've got to bring this to the Council. Keep your phone on – I'll be in touch."_

Phil flipped the phone closed when the line went dead and took a moment to just stare into open space. A protection detail – that's all this was supposed to be. It wasn't supposed to become a hit on the most dangerous target Clint would ever be sent after.

He scrubbed a hand over his face and headed for the stairs. He found his way to Moreau's room by memory and knocked lightly on the door.

"Monsieur Moreau?"

A few moments later the door swung open and Moreau appeared, wrapped up in a black robe.

"I just wanted to make sure you were settled for the night."

Moreau nodded wearily.

"Yes, thank you. Monsieur Sinclair?"

Phil forced himself to smile.

"He'll be fine. Getting some much-needed rest at the moment."

"I think we are all due for that at the moment." Moreau managed a weak smile. Phil hesitated for a moment, taking in the tired tension in Moreau's posture.

"You should know," Phil started suddenly, "Mr. Sinclair – he's very good at his job. He'll keep you safe."

Moreau's smile grew more genuine.

"That, Monsieur, is one thing of which I have no doubt."

"Get some rest, Monsieur," Phil directed kindly.

"You should take your own advice, my friend." Moreau tossed him a grin. "Good night."

Phil nodded and watched the door close. He made his way back down the stairs and back to the guest room. He pushed the door open quietly and looked across the moonlit room to where Clint was still lying.

The archer didn't stir as Phil closed the door again, so Phil made his way closer. He smiled softly when he found his agent's eyes closed and his breathing deep and even. Silently, he made his way around to the other side of the bed and sat carefully. He waited, but Clint didn't stir.

He had just toed off his own shoes and stretched out on his back on top of the blankets when his phone started silently vibrating. He sat up and swung his legs back over the side of the bed.

"Coulson," he answered the call in a low tone, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Clint wasn't disturbed. The archer shifted, but didn't wake.

" _They've issued the order."_

Phil closed his eyes and leaned over, bracing his elbows on his knees and running a hand through his hair.

"Yes, sir." He told himself his voice was quiet because Clint was sleeping, not because he was so dismayed by the news.

" _I trust you'll communicate it to Barton."_

"Yes, sir."

Fury paused.

" _Keep me updated."_  That was about as close to concern from Fury as Phil could expect. It made him smile – despite the trepidation he was feeling.

"Will do."

He flipped the phone closed and placed it on the night stand, stretching out on his back once again. He'd tell Clint in the morning.

Despite everything swirling around in his mind, Phil was relieved when sleep swept in quickly. He supposed exhaustion did that.

* * *

End of Chapter 5

Now the real fun begins - Clint is going after Natasha :)

Here's your preview

* * *

_"Son of a **bitch**!" Clint stumbled back a step, his hand going to the brick wall to steady himself. As his vision focused, he caught a glimpse of red and black and then something impacted his thigh, hooked behind his knee, and then yanked the limb out from under him. He hit the asphalt hard, his quiver digging into his back._

_Clint's left hand went for the knife at his back even as he looked up into the barrel of a gun – a Makarov if wasn't mistaken._

_"Don't."_


	6. City Walls Ain't Got No Love For Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> As always - thanks to Kylen my amazing beta ;)
> 
> So sorry I've been so hit and miss on updates - hope you can forgive me!
> 
> Enjoy!

  
_He who would accomplish little must sacrifice little; he would accomplish much must sacrifice much.  
_ _**James Allen** _   


* * *

_**Knock – knock – knock.** _

Clint's hand tightened around his gun and he twisted, pushing himself up onto his right elbow and point the weapon unerringly at the door. Next to him, Phil was sitting straight up, his own gun aimed in the same direction.

For a moment they were both frozen, locked in a hyper alert defensive stance.

"Monsieur Sinclair? Monsieur Carter?"

_Moreau._

Phil swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood. Clint let the gun drop to his lap.

"Your reflexes were lookin' a little slow there, old man. Get caught up in your beauty sleep?" Clint snarked as he carefully turned to sit properly in the bed.

"Who are you calling old man? I'm not the one moving like I just turned a hundred."

"Shut up," Clint groused petulantly, refusing to acknowledge Phil's snicker. He also chose to ignore that by the time he'd managed to get himself out of bed and to his feet, Phil was already pulling the door open. With a wince, Clint leaned to hide his gun under the blankets.

"Ah, Monsieur Carter, good morning." Moreau was smiling and looked remarkably rested for a man who had nearly been assassinated the night before. He took in both of their slightly dishevelled appearances and frowned. "Ah, did I wake you?"

"No, no, don't worry about it," Phil assured, running a self-conscious hand through his less-than-neat hair.

"Monsieur Sinclair, how are you?"

Clint managed a quick smile and an unconcerned wave of his hand.

"I'm good."

Moreau nodded.

"Well, I've come to offer breakfast. From what I've smelled of it, it is not something you want to miss."

Phil tossed a glance at Clint and then they both simultaneously looked down at their watches. Clint arched a surprised eyebrow at the time and Phil turned back and offered Moreau a grateful smile.

"We'll be there in a few minutes."

Moreau nodded and turned away. No sooner had Phil closed the door behind him than Clint turned and crawled onto the bed, collapsing on his stomach with a low groan.

"Who's the old man now?" Phil teased lightly as he moved away from the door. "Let me take a look."

Clint's only response was another groan.

Phil flipped on the bedside lamp and let out a low whistle. A large patch of Clint's back surrounding the square, white bandage was painted a solid black and blue. The bandage itself showed a red spot staining its middle. Phil supposed sleeping in the same position for what had turned out to be well over nine hours had locked up those bruised muscles like a board.

"Damn, kid, how'd you even get that gun around when he knocked?"

"Survival instinct," Clint ground out. "Kinda wishing I'd just ignored it and kept sleeping."

"Yeah, I bet."

Phil sighed and shifted the blankets so he could retrieve the long since warmed ice pack.

"I'll get you some Ibuprofen and you always feel better with food."

Clint turned his head and tossed Phil a contemplative look.

"You know, that  _is_  true."

"I brought you some clothes in my bag. Get dressed and we'll go get some breakfast."

Clint hesitated.

"Or…"

Phil rolled his eyes.

"Or I can get the clothes for you and you can just lay there?"

Clint smiled.

Phil stalked over to the back pack and retrieved a pair of black cargos and a black t-shirt. He promptly threw them at Clint's pleasantly-grinning face. Then he continued on his trek for the Ibuprofen.

He returned to see Clint, still sprawled across the bed, clean clothes shoved off to the side.

Phil shook his head and tossed the pill bottle on top of the clothes. Clint just watched it with his eyes and made no move to retrieve it. Phil took in the tight lines of pain around Clint's eyes and looked again at the dark bruising on his back. He swallowed thickly as he thought about what he knew Clint was going to be asked to do in spite of the injury.

With a sigh, he sat on the edge of the bed, one knee pulled up in front of him. Clint's eyes shifted to him and a dark blonde eyebrow arched curiously. He could almost see Clint's brain whirring – remembering that Phil had mentioned calling Fury last night, putting together what the probable result of that conversation might have been. He watched grim realization dawn in the archer's eyes.

"They issued the order, didn't they?"

Phil had stopped being surprised by Clint's perceptiveness long ago, so he just nodded. Clint sighed and then nodded in return. For a moment they were both silent and then Phil was speaking before he could stop himself.

"You don't have to do it."

Something flashed across Clint's eyes and Phil stiffened his posture slightly in instinctive defense.

"Do what?"

Phil had a sudden and vivid memory of the argument they'd had about Clint's ability to do his job back on their first night in Paris. He really did not want to go down that road again, but at the same time he needed to give Clint an out – if only for Phil's own peace of mind.

"If you want to walk away, I'll back your play."

"Walk away." Clint repeated the words quietly – almost contemplatively – conflicting emotions warring in his storm-colored eyes.

Phil could see the doubt – the overwhelming self-doubt – weighing Clint down, making him question if he even  _could_  go after Romanoff. If he had what it took after everything that had happened since Croatia – after knowing what he knew, what he'd witnessed, about Romanoff.

But Phil could also see the same hardened dedication – the drive to  _do his job_  – that Clint had held in his eyes since the moment they met three years ago. Clint always did his job –  _always_.

He watched Clint slowly push himself up and face him.

"I know why you want me to." Clint's words were quiet and sincere. "I  _know_." And Phil believed he did – believed Clint knew every fear playing through his handler's head. "But I can't."

There was more apology in Clint's tone that Phil expected and it took any argument right out of him. Because part of Phil – if he was being honest – had known what Clint would say before he even made the offer. But another part of him had hoped – perhaps unreasonably – that Clint would walk away, would think of himself and his own safety first for once.

"If I don't do this," Clint went on, "then what the hell have I been fighting for the past four months?"

Phil tilted his head a little in acquiescence. He arched an eyebrow expectantly when Clint's mouth quirked into a familiar smirk and he gave a slight shrug.

"Besides, Phil, when have I ever walked away from a challenge?"

A challenge. Phil couldn't help but huff a laugh. Clint had always loved a challenge.

"Okay then, you've got work to do."

Clint sighed, shook a few Ibpfrofen out onto his hand, dry swallowed them and then reached for his clothes.

"I should be able to track her down before she makes a move again, but you should stay tight on Moreau anyway."

"I'll stick to him – but I want you to stay on comms the entire time – no exceptions. Got it?"

"Yeah, yeah." Clint rolled his eyes and groaned his way into his black t-shirt.

"What's your game plan?"

"Gonna go back to the safehouse and get my gear." Clint stripped out of his dress pants from the night before and yanked on his cargos. "Then I'll go back to where I saw her car and scope out for security and traffic cameras. With any luck, I can track her to where she dumped the car and give myself somewhere to start."

He groaned deeply as he bent to pull on his boots. Unable to just sit by and let him suffer, Phil pulled Clint back upright by the shoulder and knelt to finish tying his agent's boots.

"You realize she probably dumped the car a long way from where she's staying, right?"

"Yeah, probably," Clint sighed. "But I'm just gonna pretend it's me and go from there."

"I can run facial recognition software on all the traffic and security cameras from here. It's a long shot but we might get lucky." Phil stood, retrieving the abandoned pill bottle to return it to his first aid kit.

"Yeah, I won't hold my breath. She's probably as good at staying off the radar as I am."

"Like I said, we might get lucky." Phil pulled on his own boots and watched Clint grit his teeth as he pulled on his leather jacket.

"Yeah," Clint ground out, "cuz  _luck_  is so our thing." He settled his jacket on his shoulders and braced himself against one of the tall posters on the bed, breathing deeply through his nose.

"You gonna take time to eat before you go?" Phil asked carefully, trying to spare Clint a little pride and not draw attention to his obvious struggle with the pain.

"You ever known me to pass up free food?"

"I've never known you to pass up  _any_  food – free or otherwise."

Clint chuckled and followed Phil to the door.

"Ah, you know me so well, Phil… _so_  well."

* * *

Clint pressed his closed fist to his chest and tried, unsuccessfully, to keep the burp that forced its way out to a low volume.

"Nice," Phil scolded as he joined Clint in the bedroom where the archer was collecting his Desert Eagle and knife.

"In some cultures, that's the highest compliment you can pay a chef." Clint smirked at his handler as he checked the safety on his gun and then slid it easily into the back wasteband of his pants. Phil just rolled his eyes in response.

"I'll be sure to pass on your high regard to my chef. Coming from one such as yourself, that is a high honor."

Clint tossed a grin at Moreau, who stood in the doorway.

Phil gave Clint a look that ordered he not let the compliment go to his head.

"Monsieur Carter, if you would not mind, I would like a moment with my protector."

Phil looked to Clint, asking with his eyes if he wanted Phil to leave the room or stay. The archer dipped his chin slightly and Phil nodded.

"I'll meet you in the entry hall."

Clint awkwardly shifted his knife – enclosed in the sheath he would strap to his lower back before he left – from one hand to the other. Moreau's eyes settled on the weapon for a moment and beyond a gleam of apprehension in his gaze, he showed no reaction.

"What can I do for you, Monsieur Moreau?"

Moreau rolled his eyes in what seemed an awful lot like affectionate exasperation – an expression Clint was extremely familiar with, since Phil wore it often around him.

"Are we back to that formality? I thought we were past that."

Clint shot the older man a teasing grin, but remained silent as he waited for Moreau to tell him what was on his mind.

"As it is, I feel I owe you my thanks for saving my life."

Clint dipped his head silent acceptance, knowing better than to cheapen the thanks by brushing it off – by saying it was nothing when it wasn't. It wasn't  _nothing_ – not to Clint and certainly not to Moreau. After spending a year taking lives for no reason other than money, Clint had come to see life as something to be protected.

A peculiar stance for an assassin, perhaps – but one he took seriously.

He killed now to rid the world of those who were a danger to it. He killed to protect. He killed because he was goddamned good at it. And maybe part of him did it so that no one else had to. But even now – as one of the premier assassins in the entire world – he did not kill without having a damn good reason.

Not even for SHIELD.

"I understand that now you have a job to do." Moreau gave him a weighted look that had Clint narrowing his eyes slightly. "A job beyond that for which it originally seemed you were here."

Clint's eyes snapped to Moreau's and in that moment he could see that the man knew far more than he was supposed to.

"And whether or not acting as my guardian was just a means to this end – I am still so very grateful. So thank you, Monsieur Sinclair, for saving my life."

Clint nodded and felt a sudden urge to reveal some small part of his mission here – to tell Moreau that he was not a means to an end, was instead the priority. But mission priorities had a tendency to change. Clint knew that better than anyone.

Phil and the rest of SHIELD would shit kittens if the every found out he revealed any mission details, so Clint settled for something small – but meaningful – and just hoped to hell no one ever found out.

"My name's Barton, Clint Barton. And you were never a means to an end."

Moreau's eyes brightened and he nodded, his jaw clenching – rightfully sensing how monumental Clint's simple words had been.

"Thank you, Monsieur Barton. And shall I say," Moreau actually smirked, "good hunting?"

Clint smirked in return and extended his hand to Moreau.

"My associate will keep you safe." They shook hands firmly. "It has been my genuine pleasure,  _Henri."_

Moreau smiled widely as Clint strode past him and left the room.

"I told you." The French man stated almost victoriously into the empty room.

* * *

Phil slid into his seat at the oak desk in the guest bedroom he and Clint had commandeered that first night they stayed at Moreau's. It had since become Coulson's unofficial command station as he split his time between keeping tabs on Clint's pursuit of Romanoff and fulfilling his duties as bodyguard to Moreau.

He had admitted – grudgingly – after the first day that asking Clint to stay on comms the entire time was unreasonable. It also forced him to put up with an unholy amount of Clint's constant chatter, which while entertaining at times, could drive even the most patient man to distraction. So they'd fallen back to just having regular check-ins. Those check-ins were not often enough in Phil's opinion – especially given who Clint was chasing – but as far as Clint was concerned, he was being forced to check in like 'a snot-nosed rookie that couldn't wipe his own ass.'

Clint's words, not Phil's.

It was one such check-in that Phil was waiting for now. They were over five days into their hunt for the Black Widow and still had yet to catch up to her. Calling on his own instincts as arguably one of the best assassins in the world, Clint was doing his level best to get into Romanoff's head – to predict her movements as if he were making them himself. He had managed to find two abandoned safe houses – which were no more than nondescript one-room apartments – after working backwards from where he found her car. Both safe houses were cold, with only minor evidence to suggest Romanoff had been there, but Clint was convinced he was closing in.

Phil had learned in the beginning to trust Clint's instincts about such things.

Fifteen seconds later than it was supposed to, the comm line clicked to life.

" _Overwatch, this is Hawkeye_ – _come in."_

"You're late." Phil smirked, already imagining the eyeroll and colorful response that would be forthcoming from his agent. He barely got the words out before his phone was buzzing in his pocket. He pulled it out and laughed.

A picture message. Clint with his favorite black sunglasses very casually holding up one hand with his middle finger point towards the sky. They said a picture was worth a thousand words.

" _Need I say more?"_

"No, I hear you loud and clear, Hawk. Sit-rep?"

" _Well...I found this panini place_ – _which was surprisingly good considering we're in France, not Italy_ – _and then I stopped for a crêpe because, honestly, what's a meal in France without a crepe."_

"Of course." Phil couldn't keep a look of fond exasperation off his face. It was always food with Clint. "That's all very informative, but I was more interested in how the mission is going."

" _About the same as it was half an hour ago when I checked in with you_ _ **then.**_ _I may be good, but I'm not_ _ **that**_ _good. If you gave me longer between check-ins, I might have more to show for my time."_

"Oh but then I would miss out on these charming and pleasant conversations." Phil really hoped his intended sarcasm carried over the comm line. If Clint's indecipherable muttering in response was anything to go by, his hopes were realized.

" _Please tell me you have something."_

"Unfortunately, the facial recognition is still coming up empty." Clint swore softly under his breath. "But you knew it was a long shot. Where are you headed next?"

" _There's an area near the river that has some good potential safe house locations. After finding the apartment near the tower empty, this area would be my next bet."_

"Okay, sounds good – check in again in 30."

" _Will do_ –  _Hawkeye ou_ – _"_

"Wait!" Phil cut him off, eyes pinned to his computer screen that had just pinged and started flashing with a green box around a black and white picture.

" _What is it?"_

"We just got a hit."

" _Where?"_ Clint's tone was suddenly intense and sharply focused.

"Two blocks from the river, just south of Notre Dame. She walked behind someone when they were using a monitored ATM."

" _That's six blocks from here."_ Phil could hear Clint take off, heard the wind whistle through the comm as he leapt from one rooftop to the next.  _"Give me a street name."_

"Rue des Bernardins."

Clint grunted as his hands caught the edge of the rooftop, his back aching and shoulder pulling in near synchronization. He dug his boots into the wall and propelled himself up and over the ledge. He moved quickly to the opposite edge of the roof, dropping into a crouch as his eyes scanned the street below. He was several blocks away from the ATM Coulson had spotted Romanoff near, but he knew better than to believe she would linger in one area for too long. Phil said the footage showed her moving away from the river, so Clint started his search a few blocks south of the ATM on the same street.

" _Anything?"_

"Not yet."

Clint breathed his response lowly, fully engrossed in his most stealthy persona. If he found her, he was going to have to pull out all the stops to prevent her from spotting him. It wasn't often that he was sent after someone with skills that rivalled – or in this case probably surpassed – his own, and he wasn't quite sure if these were his favorite type of missions or his most hated. He loved the challenge – thrived on it, even – but in no other situation had he ever had such great potential to fail. And he hated to fail.

Movement of a door to a café half a block away caught his attention and he focused on it. The glass door swung open and he caught a glimpse of red. Everything in him froze as she stepped out onto the sidewalk, small white bag in hand.

Natasha Romanoff – better known in his profession as The Black Widow, the most deadly assassin in history.

And he'd found her.

He wasn't sure in that moment – as she looked quickly up and down the street before crossing and angling for a side alley – if that was a good thing or a bad.

" _Hawkeye, you still there?"_

"I've got a visual."

He shifted his position silently watching her move up the alley next to the building on which he was currently at roost. He spoke again before Phil could properly respond.

"I'm going after her."

" _You have some sort of plan you haven't told me about?"_

"I'll stay on her for a few days and start getting to know her movements, any habits she has. I should be able to move on her in a week, tops. You can let Fury know that the hard part is over."

He could hear the smirk in Phil's voice when he replied.

" _Is it?"_

"Sure, Overwatch...now comes the fun."

* * *

_July 31st_

* * *

_One week and four days later..._

* * *

" _The Council wants an update_ – _they're apparently giving Fury hell right now since you haven't made your move yet."_

Clint rolled his eyes and adjusted his quiver against his back, shifting back a little on his rooftop when Romanoff appeared in the doorway of the safe houses she'd been using the past two days. She'd be moving locations today – he could tell by the bag she had slung over her shoulder. She never stayed in the same place more than two days. A few times, maybe because she sensed she was being, watched, she'd moved after only one night.

Clint shifted even farther back moving along the rooftop as she headed away from his perch – which was two blocks away.

"You can tell the Council, from me, that they need to pull their heads out of their asses. This isn't some clueless dictator in a third-world country. I'm not making my move until I know I can have the upper hand."

He couldn't just fire an arrow at her and call it a day. For one – he was certain she'd feel it coming. And getting sniped for the shadows just didn't seem like the way a woman like that should go. Romanoff would go out in only one way – fighting. He could feel it.

" _I'll be sure to pass that along, but everyone is getting antsy, Hawk. You've been on her for a week and a half."_

"I know how long I've been on her, Overwatch."

Clint took a breath and pulled himself up and over the ledge he was holding on to. Two and a half weeks of too little sleep and too much stress was making him short tempered. Phil was probably the only one that  _wasn't_ getting impatient with him.

" _You're usually not this cautious."_ Phil sounded incredibly sympathetic and it had Clint sighing as he leapt to his next rooftop.

 _Was_ it caution? Or was he stalling because he wasn't quite sure he could handle this? Clint wasn't sure and he didn't want to think about it too much either. He watched Romanoff cut down a side street and frowned. He'd have to go to the ground to continue following her. Still two blocks back, he jumped from his roof to the fire escape on the adjoining building, and made his way down the outside of it like a monkey.

"Overwatch, if I make my move at the wrong time, I won't..." Clint clenched his jaw as he peered out into the street. "I just need make sure I've got as many things stacked in my favor as I can."

" _Understood, Hawk. You're on no one's timeline but your own, okay?"_

Clint nodded and prepared to step out into the street, but paused. He cocked his head a little, the back of his neck tingling in warning, and started to turn – only to turn right into the butt of a handgun as it swung towards his head. It hit his temple with a sickening crack and his vision went momentarily white.

"Son of a  _bitch!"_ Clint stumbled back a step, his hand going to the brick wall to steady himself. As his vision focused, he caught a glimpse of red and black and then something impacted his thigh, hooked behind his knee, and then yanked the limb out from under him. He hit the asphalt hard, his quiver digging into his back.

Clint's left hand went for the knife at his back even as he looked up into the barrel of a gun – a Makarov if wasn't mistaken.

"Don't."

Clint froze, eyes shifting beyond the gun to the woman wielding it. Cold green eyes on a pale face framed by waves of red. How the hell could someone so beautiful be so damned dangerous?

"Who are you?"

Clint remained silent, knowing he couldn't tell her anything. If she was half as smart as he thought she was, she would figure it out on her own anyway.

"Why are you following me?"

Clint arched a reproachful eyebrow – scolding her silently for asking a question with such an obvious answer. Her eyes narrowed and he thought he might have seen something like emotion flash briefly in her eyes before the stone-like hardness returned.

She just stared at him for a painfully long, silent moment. He narrowed his eyes in confusion as he watched frustration sweep through her expression. Then she was suddenly backing up.

"Stop following me. I won't warn you again."

And then she was gone, vanished into the shadows.

Clint pushed himself up, bracing his hand on the wall as his vision swam.

"Well...that's an interesting development."

" _Hawk, what the hell is going on?"_

"I'm not really sure..." he shook his head to clear it. "Our favorite spider just dropped in."

" _I heard."_ Clint managed a small smile – Phil's voice was bleeding poorly-concealed worry.  _"You good?"_

A casual question but it carried so much with it.

"She cold cocked me..." Clint trailed off and frowned, reviewing the short one-sided conversation in his head.

" _Hawk?"_

"She didn't kill me. She had me, knew why I was here, and she didn't kill me. That doesn't make any sense..." Clint shook his head again, wishing the haze of what had to be a minor concussion would fade. "She should have killed me.  _I_ would have killed me."

" _Hawkeye, tighten it up and give me a sit rep."_

Clint blinked at the sharp tone and straightened.

"She got the drop on me and took me to the ground, but didn't take a shot. Warned me off and then disappeared."

" _Warned you off?"_

"Yeah, that's weird, right?"

" _It's definitely unexpected."_

"I need to get moving or I'll lose her."

" _Hawk..."_

Clint paused and waited.

" _Just be careful."_

"Careful's my middle name." Clint smirked and could almost hear his handler's eye roll in response. He started climbing up the fire escape he'd only just descended a few minutes ago. He had to get high if he was going to get eyes on her again. He heard Phil mutter something indecipherable and let his smirk widen.

He made it to the roof and jogged to the opposite side, searching the streets with his eyes. He spotted that fire red hair almost five blocks away. He was just about to take off in pursuit when something else caught his eye.

To anyone else, the woman was just another brunette, tall and lean. But there was something about the way she moved that set off all sorts of warning bells in Clint's head. Clint had only seen one other person move with that kind of controlled danger – and that was Natasha Romanoff.

"Holy shit – there's two of them."

" _Come again?"_

"There's someone else trailing Romanoff on the ground. And I'd bet my off-shore bank account that she's a Black Widow program graduate. They're coming after her themselves."

Phil was silent for a long moment.

" _What do you want to do?"_

Clint thought for a long moment. He could just let this new player do his job for him. He could walk away.

Walk away.

That option kept coming up.

But what if the new player wasn't here to eliminate Romanoff? What if she was here to bring the Widow back into the fold...

Walking away wasn't his style anyway.

"I'm going to follow – find out where Romanoff is going. I'll take her out tonight before the new player can make her move."

" _Are you sure?"_ There were so many ways to take that question.

Was he sure about this plan? Mostly.

Was he sure he could beat the new player to the punch? Definitely.

Was he sure he wanted to do this? Not really.

Was he sure he could actually handle Romanoff? Not at all.

In the end he summed it all up into one response that said it all – or at least all Clint was willing to admit.

"Does a bear shit in the woods?"

In a word... _yes_.

* * *

End of Chapter 6

Thanks for reading!

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* * *

_She looked up to see the metal point of an arrow aimed at her heart. Everything in her froze and she knew it was over. This was the end. He had her – whoever he was – and in that moment there was nothing she could do to save herself._

_In that moment, all she could feel was fear._


	7. I'm On The Ledge Of The Eighteenth Story

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> As always - thanks to Kylen my amazing beta ;) She really is awesome ya'll...
> 
> So apparently my memory is TERRIBLE - and I completely forgot that I hadn't finished posting this story. So to save us all some headaches, I'm just gonna spend a few minutes now and post the rest of it all at once :) So enjoy!

  
_The important thing is this: to be able, at any moment, to sacrifice what we are for what we could become._   
**_Maharishi Mahesh Yogi_ **   


* * *

By the time Romanoff seemed to have arrived at her next safe house, Clint was absolutely certain that the second assassin trailing his target was preparing to make her move. If you were in the business long enough, you learned the look of an assassin preparing to strike. He was sure even he had his own tells that gave away when he was about to go for the kill.

From a perch on a building across the street, Clint's practiced eyes scanned the new building with expert efficiency – looking for any weakness he could use as an entry point. There were several other buildings on the street, but he  _knew_ this one was hers, if for no other reason than it was the one he would have picked.

"Clever girl," he murmured when nothing was immediately obvious. Romanoff was smart – and her choice of safe houses reflected that. At first he didn't think he'd be able to get in without going in the same door Romanoff was headed towards now.

Then he saw it.

He could see how she would have looked the entry point over, written it off as inaccessible. It was three stories up with no way to climb to it. But Clint wasn't planning on accessing the broken window by climbing. The building next door was  _almost_  too far away to jump from. For anyone other than Clint, it probably  _was_  too far. But Clint had survived this long because he could do things that very few would even think of attempting.

He shifted his gaze towards the other assassin tailing Romanoff. He had wondered – once the effects of the concussion Romanoff'd given him had started to settle down – if  _she_  had been the one that Romanoff had actually caught following her. Clint had been on the rooftops until their little meet-and-greet and he wondered if he'd just had bad timing.  
He wasn't sure now if the second assassin even knew he was there. So far she hadn't given any indication of realizing anyone else was targeting her prey. He wasn't going to count on that, though. He'd learned long ago to hope for the best – but realize the worst was probably going to be what actually happened, and be ready for that instead.

Realizing that Romanoff was doing her usual paranoid casing of the area that always preceded her entry into any safe house, Clint knew he had precious little time to get to that rooftop next to her building so he could make his entry. It took him less than 90 seconds to cross three rooftops, and rabbit over an alley via a rickety board.

Now only one building separated him from her building. It was the building he would make his entry from, but it was also almost as difficult to access as Romanoff's. Getting to that rooftop would be tricky. Right now, he was two stories lower than he needed to be and there was nothing for him to use to climb the wall but two window sills and jagged brick. And that only mattered if he could jump the alley gap between the two buildings and stick his landing on the three-inch-wide window sill directly opposite him.

Clint ran his tongue across his lips and backed up, eyes glued to the window he was aiming for. And then he ran for the edge.

Most people would find the moment after his foot pushed off the rooftop to be the most terrifying – nothing but three stories of air beneath him, a solid brick wall rushing quickly towards him. Those few heart pounding moments were Clint's favorite. He felt like he was defying gravity.

No,  _his_  least favorite part was the landing.

The toes of his boots found purchase on the sill and his right knee cracked into the window as his momentum carried him forward. He caught the edges of the window frame with his hands just as the wooden sill cracked and his left boot slipped. For one breath-stealing moment, he was sure the window frame was going to prove just as unstable and he was going to fall.

But the frame held – even with his vice-like grip digging into it – and he was able to get his footing again. He blew out a deep breath, sent up silent thanks that Phil hadn't seen that, and started climbing. Finding hand and foot holds in the old brick wall wasn't particularly  _hard,_ but finding hand and footholds that wouldn't crumble under his weight proved a little trickier.

It took him longer than he would have liked to make it up the two stories and over the roof ledge, and once he was on solid footing again he beat it to the opposite edge and peeked down at his target.

Romanoff was already pushing the door open and stepping inside.

"Shit," he muttered as he backed up once again. The window he was going through was nothing but half-broken glass and it was two stories lower than where he was now. He didn't have time to plan any further than making the jump. He'd worry about what he'd do when he confronted her if he managed to clear the alley at all.

He mentally visualized Romanoff's trek up the stairs and knew his time was up. It was now or never.

He tapped his comm to life.

"Overwatch, I'm going in."

" _Be careful."_

Clint couldn't help a grim little smirk at that. If Phil could see the jump he was about to make, he'd have a stroke. If was even a little off, he was paint on the wall and then pudding on the ground below.

His smirk widened and he ran for the edge.

* * *

Natasha closed the door to her safe house firmly, clicked the four deadbolts into place and then slid the bar lock across to the locked position. She still felt like she was being watched, even though she hadn't caught sight of the man from the alley since she'd warned him to stop following.

Silently she started up the stairwell, pressing her hand gently against her right side and the ribs she had cracked a couple of weeks ago on the job just before she took the contract on Moreau.

She should have killed the blonde assassin. She had been stupid not to. But there had been something about the way he'd looked at her, like he wasn't afraid. She couldn't remember the last time someone had looked at her, known  _who_  she was – because she had no doubt he knew  _exactly_ who she was – and hadn't been afraid.

She'd known someone had been following her for more than a day, tailing her by sticking to alleys and side streets. She'd doubled back, hoping to catch the pursuer by surprise. She just hadn't expected to come face to face with him and then to issue nothing but a warning.

Something about him had been fascinating – unreasonably and unexplainably so – and it had struck a curious chord in her. In that moment, she hadn't  _wanted_ to kill him. So in a moment of uncharacteristic mercy, she'd let him live. She just hoped she didn't live to regret it.

No sooner had the thought floated through her head than a crash sounded from the top floor and there was a heavy, rolling thud.

She had her gun out a breath later and led the way up the stairs with it. Apparently her warning had gone unheeded. She wouldn't be so merciful this time. She'd kill him and then she'd go into hiding until it was safe to go after Moreau again.

She moved silently to the third floor and peeked around the doorway. She wasn't sure what she expected.

To see him standing in the middle of the room, maybe. Lying on the floor bleeding, because that was the only condition which someone who made it through that window should be in. She hadn't expected to see nothing but broken glass.

Her eyes narrowed cautiously as she scanned the room but she couldn't see him anywhere. Her other senses tuned and for a moment she thought she heard a faint breath. It was the only indication she got before her senses screamed in warning and something came whistling through the air towards her.

She pulled back in time to feel the air shift as a black arrow passed a breath from her cheek and slammed into the wall inside the stairwell. She was about to turn and open fire at the rafters – the only place he could be – when the arrow suddenly exploded with a yellow gas. Coughing, she dove into the room to escape the fumes.

Another whistle of air and she rolled to the side, eyes widening as an arrow impacted the floorboards where her body had just been. She raised her gun and nearly growled in frustration when another arrow knocked it from her hand.

Crab crawling backwards, she took cover behind a wooden column. The room went absolutely silent and she waited, carefully sliding a knife from the sheath on her thigh. A beam above her creaked and she spun around the column throwing the knife at the sound and reaching for her other Makarov, holstered at her shoulder.

She saw a shadow flip across the rafters and to the ground across the room, dodging her blade with unreasonable ease. She brought her gun up at the same time she saw the shadow stretch a bow to the firing position.

She fired, he rolled to the side and came up to his knee with an arrow already being released. She drew her hand back with a hiss as her second gun was knocked from her hand, leaving a long gash on her palm.

"Enough." She hissed the word lowly and ran at the shadow.

* * *

Clint knew the moment she decided to charge him. Her posture shifted slightly and then she was coming straight at him. He started to knock another arrow – it'd be easy to put it right through her eye. With the weight behind his bow string, she wouldn't be able to dodge it again.

But something in his gut – some instinct – had him dropping into his combat stance instead, brandishing his bow like a staff. He had barely a moment to realize this might have been a bad idea before she was on him. A new knife, produced from a hidden sheath in her sleeve, arched towards his face.

Clint brought his bow up to block the blade, and he used his free hand to knock it from her grip. Romanoff was already spinning, putting her back to him briefly and hooking her leg behind his knee. She continued to spin, slamming her elbow into his ear. He felt his ear piece slip out and fall away.

She would have had him then, but when she moved to pull his leg out from under him, Clint brought his own elbow into her briefly-exposed right side. He felt a rib shift, heard her hiss in pain, and then he jerked his own leg back, pulling her leg out from under her instead. He slammed his hand into her collar bone and watched her hit the floor with a crack.

Romanoff gasped, went white as a sheet and pressed her hand into her right side for only a moment before rolling away and to her feet. She came up already spinning into a high crescent kick that Clint only barely ducked under. He swung his bow at her injured right side, determined to exploit the weakness – however slight it was. She knocked the bow away with her hand and slammed a hard right cross into his cheek.

Even as his head snapped to the side, she jumped, bringing both of her feet into his chest and kicking him back. His back hit the wall with a crack that stole his breath and she landed back on her hands and shoulders, her body coiled and a moment later sprang back to her feet.

She ran at him again, just as he was stepping away from the wall. She planted one foot on his thigh and brought the other foot up and around, aiming for his head. Clint brought his arm up and folded it against his head to protect him from the blow. Even so, he was knocked a step to the side and then her legs were scissoring towards his neck.

He dropped, her legs brushing against the crown of his head. He swung his bow at her hands, which were supporting all of her weight and sent her tumbling to the ground. Just as she came to her feet, his bow slammed into her right side. She paled and a boot to her chest sent her to her back.

* * *

Natasha gasped air back into her lungs, pressing her hand into her right side. Damn it, he was fast – faster than anyone else she'd ever fought. It didn't help that she hadn't really been able to catch her breath since he got the first hit to her injured ribs.

She looked up to see the metal point of an arrow aimed at her heart. Everything in her froze and she knew it was over. This was the end. He had her – whoever he was – and in that moment there was nothing she could do to save herself.

In that moment, all she could feel was fear. She'd never been one to let fear in – she'd learned  _long_  ago that fear was weakness. That fear lead to defeat. But that's exactly what she was right now – defeated. That alone made her more afraid than she ever had been in her life.

Afraid she was going to die.

Afraid she was going to die at nineteen with nothing left behind but blood and death. This was all her life was ever going to be. A short life filled with blood that would end at the point of an arrow wielded by a man she didn't know. She had escaped  _them_ and that life and was going to die no better than she had been.

He stepped closer, his own breathing ragged. Hard blue-gray eyes bored into her and seemed to see right to her very soul. He held the bow like it had been crafted for him alone and she knew that when he fired he would not miss.

But he didn't fire right away – instead, he just stared at her, his storm-colored eyes giving nothing away. Suddenly something that looked like confusion swept through his gaze and his eyes focused on her so intently that she was certain he was seeing every thought that was racing through her mind.

And then there was something else in his eyes – a flash of understanding. Like he  _had_ read her thoughts, had seen her fear. His shoulders tensed in hesitation and emotion swept through his expression.

And he didn't fire.

* * *

Clint was confused. He had her. All he had to do was release the arrow and his job was done. But  _something_ stopped him.

He couldn't get the alley out of his mind. She  _should_ have killed him then. But she hadn't.  _Why?_ Suddenly that was the most important question in the world, because some instinct deep inside him was screaming at him to wait – to wait and just  _look_.

So he looked. He really  _looked_ at her and in the next moment he knew he couldn't kill her.

She was afraid – not of him, not even of dying. She was afraid that this – The Black Widow – was all she would ever be. That this life was all there was. She wanted more – dammit, he could  _see_ it. He could see a light in her. A light trapped in a sea of darkness.

Every fiber of his being hesitated. He could be wrong. He needed to know why.

"Why didn't you kill me in the alley?"

She blinked at him and remained silent.

"You could have – you had me dead to rights."

That their situation was now reversed went unsaid.

"But you didn't. You let me live. Why?"

She didn't answer, just stared at him – waiting. Waiting for him to kill her. Instead he found himself speaking again.

"Did you know I wasn't the only one following you?"

Her eyes widened slightly in surprise.

"A woman – brown hair, taller than both of us and lean with a nice tan."

Recognition lit Romanoff's eyes.

"She's one of you." Clint had expected as much.

"I am not one of them." The defense was surprising, its level of bitterness even more so. Clint was mostly just glad she finally said something because the one-sided conversation had proven less than informative.

"Yeah, word is you went rogue not so long ago, started taking contracts on your own. That's what got you on  _our_ radar. Bet that pissed them off too. Why's she here? To kill you?"

Romanoff shook her head. Clint nodded. Someone like Natasha Romanoff was entirely too valuable to them to just kill. The Black Widow Program was going to try to bring her back in first. He couldn't have that any more than the Program could have their namesake running around taking independent contracts.

"I can help you get out of here – out of Paris."

Her eyebrows rose in mocking doubt.

"I'll even help you kill her once we have a chance to come up with a plan."

"I don't need your help." Her green gaze was full of anger and hate in that moment. Whether it was meant for him or for the other female assassin, he wasn't sure.

"Looks to me like you don't have a choice."

"Why would you do that? You're here to kill me. Just do it."

"Because I think you're more valuable to the world alive."

He hadn't been positive he believed that until he said it out loud. A mixture of things passed through her eyes at that declaration. Confusion and a pain-filled emotion he couldn't identify. He knew what it was like to think the world might be better off without you, but to be too much of a survivor to just go quietly. He also knew how it felt to have someone tell you it wasn't so and to wonder how they could believe that when you didn't.

_God, Phil was going to kill him._

His spine tingled suddenly – instincts flaring in warning. His eyes cut to the stairwell for barely a breath. He saw Romanoff move out of the corner of his eye – her hand going for her ankle – and heard a gun fire just as his eyes went back to her. Pain seared through his right side a moment later.

He loosed the arrow and knocked the third gun away.

"God _damn_  it, Romanoff!"

* * *

He had another arrow knocked before Natasha could blink, his eyes ablaze with annoyance. She thought it might have been the first time someone was only merely  _annoyed_ that she'd shot them.

Three floors below them her front door exploded inwards.

He hadn't been lying. They'd found her.

"You choose, Romanoff. You can die right now or you can come with me and live. What's it gonna be?"

She met his stormy eyes and realized all hesitation was gone – he would shoot her now without a second thought. She held his gaze for a long moment. She'd never seen such sincerity in a gaze before.

She nodded.

"You have any more weapons?"

Natasha couldn't blame him for asking. She'd probably burned any good will she had when she shot him. She knew she'd have to earn some of that back if she wanted to keep that arrow out of her heart. She produced two more knives only to be shocked when he nodded.

"Keep them. Just don't stab me. If I was going to kill you, I would have." He cocked his eyebrow a little and gave her a wry look. "Try to remember that."

She nodded and watched him hurry around the room collecting arrows and her weapons. She wasn't all that surprised when he slid her guns into a cargo pocket on his pants and didn't offer them back to her. His tenuous trust in her not to try and kill him again only went so far.

He urged her towards the window as they heard feet on the stairs. She was curious what his plan was, since they were three stories up with no way to climb down. He pressed a button on his bow and then waited a beat before drawing an arrow. A moment later, he had a thin rope pulled from one of his cargo pockets and tied to a ring on the arrow. He nocked it, aimed down across the wide alley and fired. The arrow anchored itself into the brick about eight feet above the ground, the rope stretching across the expanse back to where they were standing.

He used his hand to slam another arrow into the frame of the window and tied the rope off on it.

The feet on the stairs stopped and he turned, pressing a button on his bow and then drawing another arrow. A stair creaked near the doorway and he fired. The arrow landed in the exact spot as the first arrow he'd fired at her – it had been collected in his dash around the room.

Natasha was suddenly certain that if she went to look, the arrow would be filling the same hole as the first. He turned back to her climbed into the window and threw his bow over the rope, holding both ends – a brief flash of pain showing when he tested his weight against it. He jerked his head at her a moment later, making her wonder if she'd imagined that look.

"Time to go."

Without giving herself a moment to over think it, she wrapped her arms around him and hung on. He pushed off the window sill and down they went, sliding very quickly down the rope towards the brick wall.

"Drop." Even as he issued the order, Natasha was letting go, dropping to the ground and curling into a roll to soften the landing. He let go of his bow with on hand a moment later and rolled as well. He came up to his knees and pressed a button on his bow. Then he pushed her head down roughly as the room they had just been in exploded in a ball of fire and wood shrapnel.

"Let's go. That should slow her down a little bit."

Natasha nodded and stood, following him to the mouth of the alley. Something wet on her hand had her looking down at it. Blood. She looked at her assassin-turned-rescuer.

His blood.

He didn't even seem fazed by the bullet she'd put in his side. Something in her memory tugged – the memory of another man taking a bullet from one of her guns, and then continuing after her much more quickly than should have been possible.

She grabbed his arm and pulled him around to face her. His hand went for something at his back so she released him quickly.

"You're him – the body guard from the gala."

"We gonna do this right now?" He sounded more amused than impatient, which made her want to hit him. She had a feeling he tended to have that affect. She looked him up and down – knew they were wasting precious time but had to know – how had she not seen him, noticed him, realized the threat he presented before he intercepted her.

"How did I not see you?"

He smirked, an expression that looked at home on his face, and didn't answer. His eyes drifted up and widened slightly.

He pulled her forwards around the corner of the alley as a bullet bit into the wall where she'd just been. He'd just saved her life.

"You guys are a persistent bunch, aren't you?"

Natasha ignored him and thought for a moment.

"The train station." She issued the suggestion confidently, hardly believing she was working  _with_ the man sent to kill her. He nodded and they took off just as they heard their pursuer sliding down the rope to follow them.

They ran down the block and then Natasha turned right while the archer continued straight. He pulled up suddenly and motioned her to follow him.

"This way is quicker. The nearest Metro is three blocks away." She motioned him to follow her instead.

The other assassin arched a blonde eyebrow.

"Actually there's a stop a block and a half away – if we go  _straight_."

Natasha's eyes narrowed and she opened her mouth to argue. The archer held up a hand to forestall her.

"As much as I would love to dig my heels in and argue this until you see that I'm right – your little friend just caught sight of us."

Natasha's head whipped around and she glared down the block at the woman chasing them – Sophia. The red-haired assassin lunged forward and wrapped her hand around the archer's wrist. She pulled him after her and they sprinted down the street to the metro station three blocks to the  _right._

She took the stairs leading underground two at a time and rolled her eyes when the archer went sliding down the rail past her. He jumped the turnstile like it wasn't even there and she followed with the same ease.

Just as she cleared it, a bullet pinged off the metal behind her.

The blonde assassin was suddenly there, pulling her back and drawing an arrow.

"Get on the train headed east. I'm right behind you."

The metro wasn't crowded – as expected at nearly midnight – but the people that were there started screaming. Whether it was the gunshot or that there was a man in black wielding a bow that caused the panic wasn't clear.

"Why east?" Natasha shouted over the chaos erupting around them as she watched him loose the arrow. A moment later, the area the shot had come from filled with thick smoke.

He turned and glared at her. Natasha rolled her eyes.

"Fine."

Natasha led the way through the station, the archer a step behind her. She resisted the urge to glance at him when his breathing grew steadily louder and more labored. If he slowed them down because of his injury, then Sophia would catch them for sure. Whether you were as physically fit as his physique suggested or not, a bullet in your side should put a hitch in your step. But somehow he kept pace with her without any issue beyond the ragged breathing – didn't once fall back or stop to rest.

He gestured towards a train to their left with his bow and she veered in that direction. He pulled to a stop and turned, bringing his bow up, even as Natasha made her way through the doors and onto the train.

She knew what he was doing – why he'd stopped and turned. He was guarding their escape, hoping to catch a clean shot at Sophia or at the very least prevent her from following. But Natasha knew he would never get a clear shot. Sophia wasn't that careless. And with the civilians still running around in a panic and alarms going off, Sophia's advantage grew even more.

She heard the doors chime and knew they were about to close. Her eyes shot to the archer's back but he didn't move, didn't seem to hear the only warning he'd get before the doors closed him out. She saw him shift suddenly, drawing the bow string back to his cheek and angling his body off towards the right.

Natasha followed his trajectory with her gaze and saw a flash of black clothing and brown hair. Sophia was hunkered down behind a concrete column with a gun drawn. Natasha looked back at the archer.

She could leave him.

He was locked in a stalemate with Sophia, likely wouldn't notice the doors were closing until it was too late. She could leave him and Sophia to kill each other and get away clean. Who would blame her? They had both tried to kill her at one point in the last hour.

But he hadn't killed her, even when he could have – maybe  _should_ have.

" _Because I think you're more valuable to the world alive."_

Damn it.

Natasha lunged forward, hooked her fingers in the collar of his jacket and pulled. The doors slid closed even as his body passed through the gap and he grunted as they both tumbled to the floor when his boot got trapped between the doors.

Natasha slid out from where she had been pinned under him and grabbed his ankle, pulling sharply in hopes that the trapped foot would slide free before the doors automatically opened again. She got his boot free, but too late, and the doors slid open.

She saw Sophia spring up from behind the column and run towards them, bringing her gun to bear. The doors started to close and Natasha turned to push the archer out of the line of fire. The air next to her cheek shifted as a black arrow whistled by. The archer was mostly on his back, with his bow drawn over his abdomen. Natasha whipped her head around to watch the arrow pass through a gap barely big enough for it as the doors closed.

She couldn't spare the time to see where the arrow fell. Bullets shattered the windows and bit into the metal around them even as Natasha forced the other assassin into the aisle and to safety. She risked a glance out the window as they finally started moving, eyes widening in surprise when she saw a black arrow shaft protruding from Sophia's thigh.

The dark-haired assassin was gripping the arrow in one hand and firing her gun with the other. Natasha saw her mouth move in a curse as the train took them away.

She blew out a deep breath and pushed to her feet, watching warily as the archer did the same. He had the hand not gripping his bow pressed into the wound on his side and he looked pale. Blood was dried down the side of his face from a cut in the hairline of his temple, and she realized he hadn't even taken time to clean himself up from the concussion she'd given him in the alley.

She was lucky he hadn't. Lucky he'd been so dogged in his pursuit of her. Lucky that he was apparently  _nothing_ like what he seemed.

"Who  _are_ you?" She watched him flinch minutely at the question – whether for the tone or the question itself she couldn't tell. He sighed deeply and seemed to consider whether or not to answer. He folded his bow and stored it somewhere at his back then his free hand drifted to his ear.

"Shit."

The curse was quiet, but she heard it and wasn't quite sure what it was for.

"Well?" She prodded.

"Barton – Clint Barton."

She rolled the name over in her mind but it didn't sound familiar.

"You were sent to kill me."

He sighed deeply and eased himself into one of the hard plastic seats.

"Yeah."

"But you didn't."

"Wouldn't seem so." He absently glanced at the blood on his hand and then pressed it back against his side without even a twitch of pain showing on his features.

"Why?"

He sighed again and fished a cell phone out of his pocket.

" _That_ is the million dollar question, isn't it?"

He felt guiltily relieved when he didn't have any service. The powers that be would find out what he'd done soon enough. He certainly wasn't going to stress because he couldn't rush along  _that_  particular conversation.

He glanced across the aisle as Romanoff sat in the seat opposite him and a heavy weight settled on his shoulders as the true gravity of what he'd just done hit him.

Romanoff –  _the_ Natasha Romanoff. Who had tried to kill Moreau. Who had shot  _him_ – not once but twice now. Who he'd promised to hunt down and sworn to kill and then hadn't – had helped escape instead.

_Holy hell._

Phil was going to shit kittens.  _Again._

* * *

End of Chapter 7

Here's your preview

* * *

_She stood with a frustrated – and if he wasn't mistaken, slightly offended – huff._

_"And what makes you different then every other man in the world?"_

_"I see through bullshit – it's a super power of mine."_


	8. Hurry I'm Fallin', I'm Fallin'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> As always - thanks to Kylen my amazing beta ;) She is literally one of my favorite people ever...
> 
> Now on to chapter 8

  
_The idea of redemption is always good news, even if it means sacrifice or some difficult times._   
**_Patti Smith_ **   


* * *

They had to get off at the next station. Gunfire damage, it seemed, was cause for the train to go inactive. Clint was already feeling too exposed and being on a train with people wasn't something he wanted to deal with. And scaring them off with gunfire didn't seem like a reasonable option.

So when they slipped off the train and blended into the shadows, he caught Romanoff's eye and jerked his head towards the exit. She nodded and together they moved silently out of the metro station. The red-headed assassin seemed to read his mind and led the way into the first alley they came across with a fire escape.

Clint couldn't remember a time where going up a fire escape had been so taxing. When they finally made it to the roof, Romanoff moved off to the edge "to check the area". Clint was fairly certain she was just giving him a break.

"I need to make a call." Clint fished out his cell phone again even as he made the announcement.

Romanoff gave him a wary glance but didn't try to stop him when he dialed.

Phil picked up after the first ring and Clint found himself silently dreading  _what_  exactly his handler's reaction to this situation would be.

" _This is Coulson."_

Barely restrained panic – that's what he heard in his handler's tone. Clint knew that if he was going to make any headway in this conversation he needed to ease some of that panic immediately.

"I'm okay."

" _Jesus Christ, Clint – what the hell is going on?"_

"Things have taken an, uh –  _interesting_ – turn." Clint turned his eyes to Romanoff and watched her scan the streets below them.

" _What the_ _ **hell**_ _does that mean?"_ Phil definitely had an edge to his tone now, like he somehow knew that he wasn't going to like what Clint said next.

Clint knew for a fact that he wouldn't.

_Quick like a bandaid._

"So I'm with Romanoff."

There was a long, heavy beat of silence. And the assassin in question glanced at him when she heard her name.

" _Just say yes if you have a gun on you."_

Clint rolled his eyes. If only things were that simple.

"No, Phil," he scrubbed his hand through his hair, "it's nothing like that."

" _Then what the hell_ _ **is**_ _it like?"_

"I helped her get away from the other assassin. We're headed somewhere safe now."

" _You helped her...what the_ _ **hell**_ _are you thinking?"_

And there was the rage he'd been expecting.

"Now Phil..."

" _You were supposed to kill her!"_

"Yeah, well, I made a different call!" Clint snapped back, causing Romanoff to arch an eyebrow at him over her shoulder. Clint blew out a deep breath and reached to rub his eyes. He stopped when he realized his hand was covered in blood. Which meant he probably had blood smeared in his hair now, too. Just perfect.

_Goddamn it._

He pressed his hand back onto his wound.

" _You realize you aren't just allowed to_ _ **make a different call.**_ _"_ Phil ground the words out and Clint winced.  _"You're supposed to eliminate, not aid and abet."_

"I realize that, but the situation–"

" _Fury, not to mention the Goddamned Council, isn't going to care about the 'situation'_ – _hell, Clint,_ _ **I**_ _don't even care. You have a job to do_ – _you had better damn well get it done."_

Clint swallowed thickly and bit his lip. He was dead, they would literally kill him for this.

"No."

" _No? Clint, do you realize who_ – _"_

Clint ended the call and then could only stare at his phone. He nearly flinched when it started ringing a moment later. With a sigh, he slid the device back into his pocket.

_Let the shitting of the kittens begin._

"Now what?" Romanoff asked from her place at the edge of the roof.

"There's a hostel three miles from here that doesn't ask any questions or give any answers when other people ask. We'll be safe there for the night."

Romanoff's eyebrow arched in what Clint interpreted as a questioning manor.

"It's not the first time I've had to disappear."

She nodded and followed him across the rooftop. Clint gauged the distance to the next roof with his eyes and glanced down at the hand he had pressed into his side. The adrenaline from their flight away from the safe house was fading, and pain – with a healthy mix of weariness – was making itself known. And then there was the stress of the situation– the dread over what the fallout would be – the knowledge that he had just jumped into a  _deep_  pile of shit.

It was going to be a long three miles.

* * *

Natasha watched Barton converse quickly and quietly with the man who seemed to be the proprietor of the small, three-story building they were standing in the lobby of. The French flowed swiftly and smoothly from the archer's mouth and she found herself noticing small nuances and slang in the way he spoke that indicated he'd learned the language by being immersed in it – instead of in a classroom.

The man Barton was talking to nodded and turned to retrieve something from a cabinet while Barton dug money out of a pocket of his pants. The man turned back with a small white box – which was really more brownish gray – and slid it across the counter. Next he rooted around in a drawer until he produced a pair of needle-nosed pliers. Finally, he retrieved a key from a hook on the wall and set both it and pliers on top of the box. Barton handed over a wad of bills and took the items on the counter with a nod and a word of thanks.

The archer turned to her then, and jerked his head to beckon her to follow him. Without a good reason to do anything else, she started silently after him. They ended up in front of a plain wooden door with a simple bolt lock above the door handle.

Barton unlocked the door and pushed it open, leading the way inside. Natasha followed and flipped on the light and then watched him close the door and re-bolt it. She was only marginally surprised when he pocketed the key and the room ended up having no windows. He wasn't taking any chances on her changing her mind, it seemed. He headed towards the small bathroom across the room, speaking over his shoulder as he moved.

"Don't go running off – I think I've proven I can find you."

He stepped into the bathroom and pushed the door mostly closed. She could see part of his reflection in the mirror through the small crack he left. No doubt so he could hear if she tried to leave.

Natasha sighed and glanced around. Two cots, a single end table, and a lamp were all that furnished the room. She moved over to one of the cots and sat down gingerly, clenching her jaw when her ribs ached fiercely in protest. Scooting back until she could lean back against the wall, she pressed her hand against her tender side.

Once she was settled, she glanced around again. There were a few odd things about this place – the locks on the doors, for one. Hostels weren't exactly known for highly valuing security. And the private bathroom – she didn't know if he paid more for it, or if it was standard at this place. But most hostels she'd seen had a community bathroom.

Her eyes drifted back to the bathroom door and she caught another look at Barton's reflection through the crack in the door. His jacket and shirt were now nowhere to be seen. At the moment, he was wiping down the pliers with what looked like an alcohol swab. She watched curiously as he the fished a lighter out of his pocket and flicked it to life, holding the flame to the nose of the pliers.

It was only when he shifted, and she caught a glimpse of the bloody hole in his side that she realized what he was doing.

He was going to dig out the bullet she'd put in his side – with needle-nosed pliers.

_Well, damn._

There were Red Room-trained assassins that she knew didn't have the nerve to pull a bullet from their own body.

This archer – Clint Barton – was apparently chocked full of surprises.

She saw the pliers head towards the wound and had to look away. She wasn't squeamish – and didn't feel particularly bad about causing the wound in the first place – but something about watching someone pull one of  _her_ bullets from their body just wasn't appealing.

Her eyes cut back to the bathroom when she heard a sharp curse less than two minutes later. Barton's hands were braced against the edge of the counter – the bloody pliers clenched in his left. She heard him muttering to himself about something and then he jerked the door open abruptly.

"You ever pulled a slug before?"

She had, but she wasn't sure pulling a bullet from a cadaver during training was really what he was talking about. She nodded anyway. He held out the pliers handle first.

For a long moment, she just stared. He was seriously asking her to remove the bullet that she had put in him. He had to be kidding.

"I can't get a solid grip on the bullet because my hands are starting to shake. Can you do it or not?" His tone was so clinical and forthright – not at all indicative of the fact that he was asking an assassin to help with such a serious process, much less the assassin that had put the bullet there in the first place.

She nodded and stood.

As she drew closer, she could see that his hands weren't just  _starting_  to shake. He had full-blown tremors. No wonder he couldn't get the bullet himself.

For a brief moment, when she took the pliers in her hand, she considered using the tool against him. It would be messy, but it would get the job done. And he wouldn't see it coming – she could get out of here with no one the wiser.

Then she felt the weight of her knives, the ones he'd told her to keep. Barton was a walking contradiction. Letting her keep the knives was an act of trust that was countered by fact that he hadn't given her back her guns. Letting her dig around in his side was a similar act of trust that was countered by the lack of windows and the locked door.

Fascinating. Fascinating enough to let him live for now.

She glanced at his face, startled to see him watching her closely. As if he were waiting to see what she would do now that she had an advantage over him. Part of this had been a test.

She motioned for him to sit on the small counter. He slid onto it without comment – back ramrod straight, his left hand gripping the counter, and his right braced on the small counter space behind him – giving her full access to the wound. For a moment, her eyes were drawn to the numerous scars peppered across his torso – a few from bullets, one that was definitely from a knife , and a more recent scar on his left shoulder that she couldn't match a weapon to.

She did the job quickly and admittedly without much finesse. By the time she pulled the bullet free, his grip in the counter's edge was white knuckled and he had lost what little color he'd had.

"Thought you'd done this before. You're a Goddamned butcher."

Natasha glared.

"I got the bullet out, didn't I?" She shot back sharply. "Besides," she dropped the bloody bullet and pliers into the sink while Barton pulled gauze from the small white box – a poorly-stocked first aid kit, it seemed – and pressed it against the wound, "I never said I'd done this on the living."

"Never done it on the..." Barton shook his head, slid off the counter and nudged her towards the door. "Get out."

Natasha allowed herself to be forced back into the main room. She crossed her arms and watched Barton turn on the water with his free hand and then reach for the soap. An old-school method for cleaning a wound but better than nothing.

"You're welcome." She offered with as much sarcasm as she could muster.

"I didn't say thank you." Barton's sarcasm was just as thick. He reached for the door. "I figure since you put the damn thing there in the first place, you owed me one."

With that he closed the door, but still didn't latch it, leaving the same gap he had before. She supposed she wouldn't want a witness for cleaning out a bullet wound either. With a sigh, she returned to her cot to wait.

* * *

Clint was genuinely concerned he might crack a tooth the way he was clenching his jaw as he cleaned out the bullet wound. But there was no way he was letting even a groan past his throat with Romanoff in the next room. He couldn't show any more weakness than he already had. She seemed to be content to not attempt to kill him for the moment, but he wasn't going to bet on it staying that way.

His eyes cut down to his phone on the counter as it started vibrating again. With a sigh, he tossed the now-bloody towel he'd been using into the trash and reached for gauze again. He packed it tightly against the neat little hole in his side and then taped it down firmly.

He gave himself a good look in the mirror to inspect the blood he could feel dried on his face. He pushed his hands under the water stream and washed off the blood, then he reached for one of the provided washcloths and wet it. Then he set to scrubbing his face clean.

His back ached, his badly-bruised ribs still talking to him after more than two weeks. He wished he could check the healing wound back there to make sure all was well. He wasn't about to ask Romanoff for help again. It had been hard enough to swallow the first time. And he'd only done it then because the bullet  _had_ to come out and he couldn't do it himself.

He glanced over at his quiver where it rested in the corner. How the hell was he going to explain this to Fury and the Council. Hell, how was he going to explain this to  _Phil?_ How do you explain a gut feeling – an instinct? How was he supposed to explain that  _he_  could seesomething more in her than what the rest of the world saw? Maybe even more than what _she_ saw in herself.

Clint reached for his t-shirt and eased it over his body carefully. His shoulder tweaked painfully, much as it had back at the safe house when he'd reached to use his bow as a make-shift zip line. He clenched his jaw again and reached with his right hand to grip the aching joint. He caught a glimpse of movement in the far edge of the mirror and his eyes flicked towards it. He could see Romanoff watching him from her cot in the room, no doubt seeing his reflection as he saw hers.

He dropped his right hand quickly and reached for his quiver, jacket and phone. Pulling the door open he moved towards the other cot.

"I left the kit out." He stated the information without much feeling. She could clean the blood off her face and bandage her hand if she wanted – he didn't care much either way. She nodded and moved silently to the bathroom, closing the door firmly. That didn't bother him. There wasn't any way for her to give him the slip from the bathroom.

He looked down at his phone, scowling at the message flashing that he had six missed calls. With a thick swallow, he slid his finger across the screen and called Phil. With his eyes on the bathroom door he waited for the call to connect.

" _You ready to tell me what the hell is going on?"_  Phil didn't sound nearly as pissed as he had in their last conversation. That was an improvement. Now he just sounded worried, confused and very frustrated.

"Hey, Phil." Clint sighed deeply.

" _Now isn't the time for 'Hey, Phil' - do you have any concept of how deep the shit you're in is?"_

"Yeah – I've got a pretty good idea. You tell Fury yet?"

" _He called for an update about 20 minutes ago,"_  Phil sighed.  _"I didn't have a choice, Clint_ – _you_ _ **gave**_ _me no choice when you decided to go off script."_

"He going to the Council?"

" _What do you think? I tried to buy you some time, but Fury wasn't having it. It would help if I knew what the hell was going through your head."_

Frustrated confusion bled out in Phil's tone and Clint wished he could explain – wished he even knew where to start. Everything had happened so fast, and he was sure Phil was reeling just as much as he was. Phil trusted him – Clint knew that. But Clint also knew that he'd come out of left field with all of this and it would take Phil some time to remember that trust – to see past the glaring insanity of the situation. And when he did, Clint really hoped that Phil would back him up. If he didn't, it was all over.

All the pieces were in motion. He'd set them in motion himself.

"I need some time, Phil, to get this other bitch off our asses for good."

" _Clint, I already tried..."_  Phil sounded so weary and defeated in that moment that Clint questioned his decision for the first time.  _"I want to back your play – but I can't..."_  Another pause.  _"I can't back you on_ _ **this**_ _. Do you realize that? This is Natasha Romanoff. This was a kill order straight from the Council."_

"I know, Phil." My God, did he know. "I'm not asking you to back me right now. I'm just asking for some time before you send the cavalry. I'll come in on my own."

" _And what about Romanoff?"_

"I don't..."

An idea hit Clint then – a crazy, wild notion that was sure to give Phil a coronary.

"I'll bring her in too – alive. As an asset."

There was a long pause and he knew his idea was just as crazy as he thought it was.

" _Absolutely not."_

"You can't say she wouldn't be valuable to SHIELD."

" _It's not about that, Clint. She's a threat to_ _ **everything**_ _we've sworn to protect."_

"So was I once upon a time."

" _It wasn't the same situation and you know it. They'll never go for it. You can't do this."_

"I can't just let her go, Phil, and I'm not going to kill her. Bringing her in is my only option."

" _And if she won't come?"_

"I'll convince her."  _Somehow_.

" _No, Clint. I'm not even going to take that insanity to Fury because he'd never go for it. If you do what you were sent to do, we can convince the Council to be lenient. We can still fix this."_

"It's not about  _fixing_  it, Phil. I know what I did and I'm not changing my mind."

" _I can't let you go through with this. I won't let you ruin everything you've worked so hard to build."_

Clint closed his eyes. Phil was making this so much harder.

"Phil, you can't stop me."

" _Watch me, Clint. All it'll take is a call and you've got a SHIELD tac team taking you into custody in less than an hour."_

Clint frowned.

" _Yeah, I traced your call. I know exactly where you are. Make your choice, Clint. Let this go, finish the mission and come home. Or I make you."_

Phil was backing him into a corner. He needed Phil to let him bring her in or this was all for nothing. She wanted to be better – he could see that – but she couldn't do it on her own any more than he had been able to. He couldn't just kill her. It would haunt him for the rest of his life. Phil had gone to bat for him three years ago – probably risked his career. Now it was time to pay it forward.

It was time to go all in.

"Either you bring that to Fury and let me do this – or I'm done."

" _What?"_ Phil sounded shocked, gutted, and utterly betrayed all at once.

Clint's chest clenched painfully. Never in a million years did he think he'd ever be using how Phil felt about him against him like this, manipulating him with an ultimatum. He hoped to God that he was right about her – that she was worth it. Worth  _this_.

"I'll disappear – SHIELD will never see me again."  _ **You'll**_ _never see me again_ went unsaid _._ It hurt to say it, worse than he thought it would. "We can be cleared out of here in less than two minutes and they'll never find a trail."

_I'm so sorry, Phil._

" _Goddamn you, Clint."_

There was so much anger in his handler's voice, more than he had ever directed at Clint. But more than the anger was the hurt – hurt Clint had caused. When he came back he was quieter – even  _more_  hurt, if that was possible.

" _That's a low move."_

Yeah – he knew it was and he hated himself for it.

"It's the only one I've got. You've got my back against the wall, Phil."

He hoped they could come back from this. That he wasn't destroying the most important relationship he'd ever had. He waited quietly for Phil to come to a decision.

" _You answer the damn phone next time I call."_

That was as close to agreement as Phil was probably willing to give him.

"I will."

There was a heavy pause and Clint waited.

" _I hope you know what you're doing."_ He words were quiet and deeply pained.

Then Phil hung up.

Clint lowered the phone and only had time to blow out a deep breath before the bathroom door was swinging open and Romanoff was emerging. Her face was clear of blood and her hand was wrapped in gauze from the gash his arrow had put on her palm. She held a hand gingerly to her right side to support the ribs he knew were at least badly bruised – more likely broken given the way a hit to them had brought her down.

"Your boss?" She asked with feigned casualness as she hovered in the doorway for a moment.

Clint shot her a look. It wasn't like he'd be taking personal calls during a situation like this. She arched an eyebrow in return – almost as if she were scolding him for the sarcasm of the look. Clint rolled his eyes. Might as well go ahead and rip off the bandaid and give her time to think it over.

"It was my handler."

"He tell you to kill me?" She nearly purred the words and slowly started towards him, a saunter in her step that had Clint's instincts going into high alert.

He nodded slowly, eyes locked on her approach.

"But you're not going to." She stated it in a seductive murmur and crawled onto the cot and slowly straddled his lap.

Clint shifted, blowing out a breath.

"So now what?" She purred, her eyes locked on his as she leaned closer. "Should I thank you?"

Clint's jaw twitched as her breath brushed against his lips.

"Actually," he whispered, and then his gaze hardened and he pulled her hand away from the pocket the key was in. She backed up with a scowl when he pressed his Desert Eagle into her side. "You really don't need to thank me. Your shit isn't gonna work on me, Romanoff."

She stood with a frustrated – and if he wasn't mistaken, slightly offended – huff.

"And what makes you different then  _every_ other man in the world?"

"I see through bullshit – it's a super power of mine."

She stalked over to her own cot and sat down.

"Now..." he made a point of smirking, "if you're done trying to go all Black Widow, super seductress on me..." he ignored her glare for that comment, "we need to find a way to kill your bitchy little friend."

"She's not my friend." There was at surprising defensiveness in her tone again. There was really no love lost between her and her old bosses.

"Whatever." Clint waved away the issue with his hand. "We need to get her off our asses."

Romanoff nodded in agreement.

"It won't be long until she finds a way to track us," she added.

"How long do we have before she finds us?"

She shrugged.

"Maybe six hours, more if this place is as off the grid as you claim."

Clint nodded. It looked like they could settle in for a few hours – provided that Phil didn't send in the tac team to arrest them both. Romanoff fell into a weighted silence, her green gaze boring into him as she thought. Clint waited patiently for the question he knew was coming.

"What happens to me after we kill Sophia?"

Clint met her eyes seriously.

"I bring you in."

Her eyes widened fractionally in surprise.

"I can't just let you go."

She looked away. He knew she knew it was true.

"Bring me in to who?"

He realized he hadn't told her who he worked for.

"SHIELD."

A spark of recognition lit her gaze and he knew he wouldn't have to explain what SHIELD was. She shifted to lean back against the wall, carefully pulling her knees up in front of her – all her movements slow and controlled. Whether it was her training or her injury that caused that slow control, he wasn't sure.

"And then what? They do what you wouldn't and kill me?"

He heard a faint trace of fear in her tone, so minute that he almost missed it.

"They won't kill you. I'm bringing you in as an asset."

Surprise registered in her entire expression this time then it morphed into a sneer.

"They sent you to kill me. They aren't just going to change their minds and recruit me."

"Let me worry about that."

Her sneer fell away.

"You're serious." The surprise in her eyes at that realization was genuine.

"As an arrow to the heart."

She blinked.

"The expression is 'as a heart attack'."

Clint arched an eyebrow.

"I took some liberties." He tilted his head towards his quiver.

Romanoff rolled her eyes and looked away.

"This is crazy."

"Look … just think about it. But the only way you're walking away from this offer is if you run. So if that's what you want, then go."

He pulled the door key out of his pocket and tossed it at her. Knew he was taking a gamble and that if she tried to leave, he'd have to stop her. But it was a chance he needed to take.

"But you do that and you'll be running for the rest of your life – and  _yes,_ I know how clichéd that sounded." Clint blew out a breath when she didn't move for the door – instead just weighed the key in her hand. "They won't stop coming for you. And if they ever catch you again, it won't be me you're going up against."

"Who's to say they would ever catch me again?" She challenged with a superior arch to her eyebrow.

"Don't forget we're not the only ones chasing you. You think your programwill ever stop? At least with us, you'll be safe from them."

"Oh, really?"

"We protect our own." He knew that with absolutely certainty. Where SHIELD had failed him, Phil had always stepped up. He just hoped Phil was willing to step up again.

Romanoff shook her head – but not in denial, more in disbelief.

"I know what it's like to need a new beginning." Curiosity flashed in her eyes, but he knew she'd never ask. "SHIELD gave it to me and it can give it to you too."

She worked her jaw and then abruptly tossed the keys back at him. There was nervousness clouding her eyes, but she swallowed and it cleared away.

"If we're going to kill her, we have to set a trap."

Clint felt relief wash over him. One major hurdle was crossed. She was committed for now. If she wavered down the line, he'd deal with it then.

He nodded.

"You know how she's trained – how she operates. Any ideas?"

Romanoff chewed her lower lip for a moment, her eyes assessing Clint closely – for what he wasn't sure. Finally she nodded.

"We use me as bait. When she comes for me, you kill her." Her eyes slid over to his quiver.

"She saw me at the safe house. She knows we're working together. She'll suspect a trap."

"Not if she thinks I killed you. My training dictates eliminating assets when they've served their purpose."

Clint blinked and then he nodded slowly.

"Wait for her to catch our trail and then stage it so it looks like I'm out of the picture."

Romanoff nodded.

"It will be  _staged,_ right?" Clint allowed his lips to quirk.

Romanoff blinked and then narrowed her eyes when she recognized the humor in his words.

"Yes, it'll be staged."

Clint's eyes narrowed. Not even a hint of amusement – interesting.

They both fell into contemplative silence. Clint glanced down at his phone. Phil would hopefully be calling back soon to tell him his crazy plan had been cleared.

He didn't know what the hell he would do if they said no.

* * *

Clint was watching Romanoff stare silently at the wall, methodically cracking one knuckle at a time in her hands, when his phone vibrated again.

It had been over two hours since he'd last talked to Phil. And he and Romanoff hadn't spoken to each other outside of finalizing their plan to draw out Sophia. They'd come up with a plan they were reasonably certain would work almost forty-five minutes ago.

Forty-five  _silent_  minutes ago.

Clint had spent that time analyzing every nuance of Romanoff's personality and mannerisms that he could observe. She wasn't afraid to make eye contact with him – was unreasonably confident in her abilities, considering she was only nineteen.

Though, he wasn't really one to talk about overconfident teenagers. He'd been one.

She was tough – hardened by whatever she'd been through in her life. But beneath that lingered a youth that seemed almost out of place on her.

Clint shook himself and answered his phone – realizing he'd let it ring several times already.

"Barton."

Romanoff's eyes cut over to him.

" _They've agreed to you bringing her in alive. Whether or not she'll be trained as an asset is still under discussion."_

"Discussion?"

" _She'll have to pass the psych evals before they'll let her enter training. Which means she'll be taken into custody as soon as we land on base pending those evals."_

Clint nodded – he had expected as much.

" _The Council is spitting fire, kid. So is Fury for that matter."_

"And you?"

" _I'm not too far off from it. You've backed everyone into a corner. You knew they could never just let you walk away."_

"Only because they know they would never find me – SHIELD made me an expert at disappearing."

" _No matter their reasoning – they've agreed, with protest, to your plan."_

"Good."

" _I wouldn't go that far. You gonna tell me what the hell is going on in your head any time soon?"_

Clint glanced at Romanoff. She was unabashedly watching him and listening to his end of the conversation.

"I will, Phil. But right now, you just gotta trust me."

" _Trust you?"_  Phil sighed.  _"You know that I trust you, Clint. But I could trust you to the end of the world and back and it wouldn't matter if it turns out you made the wrong choice here. And I think it's the wrong choice."_

"We'll just have to agree to disagree for now then."

" _Yeah, I guess we will."_

Clint clenched his jaw and chewed his lower lip. He owed Phil something – anything to apologize for putting him through this.

"Phil…"

" _Clint – I know that you wouldn't have done this without a reason. But you've made a decision to defy everything and everybody at SHIELD and then you manipulated me into helping you. So I don't want to hear anything from you but a reason why."_

Of course he wanted the something Clint didn't know how to give him yet.

"I don't know how to explain it in a way you'll understand."

Phil sighed deeply and Clint could  _feel_  the disappointment across the line.

" _Then you better to figure it out – because you're going to have a lot more than just me to answer to."_

Clint nodded mostly to himself. He was fully aware of what he'd gotten himself into.

"How much time do we have?"

" _I got you five hours."_

That wasn't much, but it was better than nothing.

" _And if you're not at the airstrip in exactly that much time, make_ _ **no**_ _mistake that I will be sending a team to bring your ass in."_

"We'll be there."

" _I mean it, Clint."_

"I know. Five hours."

There was a long moment of silence.

" _Just be careful."_

Clint smiled. Phil just didn't have it in him to hold that back – not when Clint was running around with Natasha Romanoff and was about to face down another Black Widow Program assassin. Even pissed off beyond belief, Phil still cared about him.

"I will."

" _Five hours."_  Phil reiterated once more – as if Clint were prone to forgetting things.

"Five hours." Clint repeated to assure the man he understood.

Then the line went dead and Clint lowered his phone. Romanoff waited for him to look at her and then arched a questioning eyebrow.

"We need to move up our timetable – because if we aren't at the extraction point in five hours, we'll both be in deep shit."

"And we aren't already?"

Clint inclined his head in agreement. She had a point.

"She's got to be closing in. If we get out and show ourselves without  _looking_ like we're trying to show ourselves, we might be able to draw her out more quickly." Romanoff offered the suggestion with a shrug.

Being seen on purpose went against every instinct Clint had. He was trained to be invisible – it was ingrained. But Romanoff was right – they needed to draw Sophia out and being seen was the best way to do that.

"Then what do you say we go out and get some food. I know a good place a few blocks from here."

Romanoff nodded.

_Let the chase begin._

* * *

Natasha saw her by accident. Barton was ordering their food at the counter at the back of the little café and Natasha was sipping a fresh cup of tea at a small table waiting for her food.

Sophia was crouched on the roof across the street, inspecting something on the rooftop.

Natasha stood and backed further into the café, knowing that at least for now, she hadn't been spotted.

It was too soon. If she saw them walking out of a café together, it was unlikely she'd buy that Natasha was really going to kill him. It was too casual, them eating together. It didn't fit Natasha's method of operation.

She'd made a tactical mistake and now they had to change their play.

"Barton."

He turned immediately, even though her call was barely above a whisper.

Natasha pulled him away from the counter by the elbow, speaking lowly.

"We've got company."

"Already?" Barton's eyes cut towards the window. "Not bad."

Natasha shrugged.

"She's a Black Widow operative."

Clint's lips quirked into a smirk.

"I guess you don't get to be one of those without being a clever little girl."

"Shut up." She glared. "Go out the back and find a way to get up high. I'll lead her into the alley we saw four blocks south of here."

Barton hesitated and she knew he was wondering if this was just a play to get away. Natasha met his eyes seriously.

"I'm in, Barton."

He searched her gaze for a long moment – seemed to be seeing right down to her soul. Finally he nodded and turned to leave.

She caught his arm.

"You  _can_ make the shot, right?"

He just smirked, pulled his arm free, and disappeared towards the back of the café.

Natasha took a deep breath and started towards the front entrance.

* * *

She felt two sets of eyes on her. One was Sophia – following a block behind her and across the street. She'd gone to the ground shortly after Natasha had left the café. The other set had to be Barton. But no matter how she tried, Natasha couldn't see him.

She saw the alley she was headed for coming up on her left and cut into it, vaulting onto the dumpster and onto the fire escape. She climbed up one level and waited.

Sophia didn't disappoint.

The brunette assassin slid into the alley as silently as a ghost, gun drawn.

Natasha waited as Sophia moved – waited until she was about to be right beneath her. Then she jumped.

Her boots slammed into Sophia's shoulders and glanced off, sending both of them rolling. They came up into spread crouches that were mirrors of each other. Natasha forced her expression to remain neutral – even though her side was flaring in pain.

"Been a while, Natalia."

"Not long enough, Sophia. And it's Natasha now."

The slowly stood and circled each other.

"Yes, they told me you had cut ties with your heritage."

Natasha didn't answer. She was putting all of her focus into waiting for the attack she knew was coming. When Sophia moved, she was a blur.

They matched each other move for move, blow for blow – having trained against each other too many times in the past. Then Sophia got a glancing blow on Natasha's injured ribs. She tried not to let it affect her, but every muscle in her body seized up for barely a moment.

That was enough.

Sophia put Natasha on her back less than four seconds later. She gasped in pain and barely got her legs up to kick Sophia back before the woman could pin her and end this for good. Natasha scrambled to her feet and forced in deep breaths.

"So where's your little friend? The archer?" Sophia asked knowingly as they circled again.

"He served his purpose and he was slowing me down so…" Natasha shrugged as if the end result was obvious.

"Considering the trail of blood he left, I'm guessing it wasn't much of a fight."

Natasha arched an eyebrow. So that's how she'd found them so fast.

"You'd be surprised."

Barton had proven he was a force to be reckoned with – despite the impression he gave in his first encounters. She was fairly certain Sophia would be on the losing end of a fight with the archer.

She resisted the urge to look around for him. He needed to end this – because if Sophia got one more hit to her ribs, Natasha was going to lose this fight. She couldn't get her breathing back to normal no matter how hard she tried.

"More to him than met the eye?" Sophia smirked.

"Something like that."

Sophia stopped circling – and Natasha stopped, too. Her back was to the street, but the escape route wouldn't mean anything if Sophia decided she was done talking.

"We want you to come home, Natalia."

"It's Natasha."

Sophia rolled her eyes.

"They're giving you a second chance,  _Natasha_. I'd take it. They aren't in the habit of handing out a third."

"I'm not going back." Natasha shook her head. She had somewhere else to be now.

Sophia's expression hardened, the geniality that had taken over her features during their brief conversation vanishing as quickly as it had come.

"Then you know what I have to do."

"You do what you have to, Sophia. And so will I."

As if he'd been listening in – waiting for the most dramatic cue – Natasha suddenly heard a now-familiar whistle in the air. She didn't dare move –and was glad she didn't when the air next to her ear shifted and a black arrow tore by.

Sophia only had time to go slack jawed in shock before the arrow was slamming into her eye.

Natasha's own jaw dropped slightly as Sophia fell. That was a hell of a shot.

She turned, searching for him with her eyes. It took a moment, but she finally spotted him – across the street, perched on a fire escape and so far away that she wasn't sure she would have trusted herself to make that shot with a gun with someone between her and the target. She looked back at Sophia.

A  _hell_  of a shot.

* * *

Clint sighed and shifted their  _borrowed_ car into park. He looked out through the windshield at the tarmac. He could recognize a SHIELD jet anywhere – and this one was already powered up and waiting. The stance of the man standing in front of the jet was even  _more_  familiar.

He could tell from here that Phil was still pissed.

With nothing but a jaw twitch of pain Clint made sure his jacket was zipped up high enough to hide the bloody evidence of his wound. While not life threatening now that the bleeding had stopped – it still hurt like a son of a bitch. And if Phil found out about it the whole situation would just get worse for Romanoff – and it was already bad enough.

Besides he really didn't want to try and explain why even after she'd  _shot_ him he still decided to go through all of this for her. He wasn't even sure he  _could_ explain it.

"That's your handler?" Romanoff eyed Phil warily.

"Yeah." Clint blew out a breath.

Romanoff was quiet for a moment as she took in Phil's stance – no doubt analyzing his posture just as effectively as Clint had.

"He's pissed?"

Clint sighed deeply.

"Yeah."

"I thought you said they agreed to bring me in." Her tone took on an accusing and distrustful note that had Clint resisting the urge to bang his head against the window. He was so sick of this being a fight at every turn – if it wasn't Phil fighting him, it was Romanoff. He couldn't  _wait_ for Fury and the council to throw their hats in the ring.

He'd known this would be hard – but it was wearing on him.

"I said they agreed – I never said the conditions of that agreement were necessarily pleasant."

She frowned.

"What does  _that_ mean?"

Clint sighed and reached into the backseat for his quiver and bow. The pull in his side nearly had his vision whiting out. He clenched his jaw and pushed the door open.

"It  _means_ that we're keeping the bullet you put in me just between us. Don't mention it to anyone –  _especially_ not Phil."

"Why?"

Clint climbed out of the car and Natasha pushed her door open to do the same. Clint replied across the hood of the car.

"Because by the end of this you're going to want him," he jerked his head at Phil, "on your side. And right now he doesn't need any more reasons not to like you."

She nodded.

"Let's go."

Together they walked away from the car. The closer they got, the more certain Clint grew that he needed to smooth the way before he introduced Romanoff to Phil – if the dangerous scowl on Phil's face was anything to go by at least.

"I think you might be right about the bullet." Natasha eyed Phil warily.

"He sure gives meaning to 'if looks could kill' doesn't he?" Clint motioned her to stop. "He's more pissed at me than you right now – we need to keep it that way." Clint grimaced. "Let me handle this."

She nodded and hung back as Clint continued to approach.

"We're two hours early – that's gotta win some brownie points."

Phil didn't smile – his eyes cut over Clint's shoulder to Romanoff. Clint angled his body briefly to follow his gaze and then turned back to his handler.

"She's not here for trouble, Phil."

"You'll understand if I choose not to take your word for it."

Clint sighed. A fight at every turn.

"Phil…"

"Like I said, Clint – if it's not the reason why you did this, I don't want to hear it."

"I don't know how to say it Phil –  _I_  barely understand it."

"Well you need to get it figured out – because 'I don't know how to say it' won't fly when the Council debriefs you."

Clint stiffened.

"What?"

Phil looked momentarily sympathetic – as if he couldn't help but continue to worry about Clint – before his expression hardened again.

"They asked to be notified as soon as we touch down. They'll be calling for you soon after I expect."

Clint looked away. He hated talking to the Council. And he knew they hated talking to him. He didn't like all the bullshit they slung and they didn't like that he called them on it. He was sure he had several reprimands in his file because he was habitually insubordinate to them. He would have several more if it weren't for Fury and Phil.

"Clint – they could fire you over this and worse, they could put you on a priority threat list and make  _you_  one of our targets."

Clint nodded. He knew both of those, and worse, were possibilities.

"What if you're wrong?"

Clint had been wrestling with that ever since he'd made this decision so many hours ago. Had it only been hours? It felt like so much longer.

"I'm not."  _He couldn't be._

Phil gave him an exasperated look that had Clint quick to continue.

"But if I  _am_  – I'll put an arrow through her heart myself." It came out more strained and weary than Clint had intended but it was too late to put the strength in his tone that Phil would have expected.

With the pledge, something in Phil's gaze shifted – and the anger, hurt and frustration that had been shining like a beacon in the agent's eyes faded. In its place came familiar concern – as if Phil was realizing for the first time the strain this was putting on Clint.

Was realizing that this wasn't easy on Clint either.

Was realizing that Clint was far more pale and exhausted than he should have been.

Phil frowned.

"You okay?"

Clint blew out a slightly hysterical chuckle.

"Phil, I'm so far from okay right now it isn't even funny." He went on before Phil could comment on that. "I just want to go home and get this over with."

Phil nodded – though his gaze remained skeptical. His eyes settled briefly on barely-treated gash in the hairline of Clint's temple and then quickly scanned for more injuries. Clint knew he'd kept the bullet wound effectively concealed when Phil's gaze returned to his and he didn't comment.

Clint turned and jerked his head at Romanoff – beckoning her closer.

"Phil – Natasha Romanoff. Romanoff – Phil Coulson."

Clint watched the two meet gazes and for a long, charged moment there was absolute silence.

Then Phil nodded, and turned on his heel – leading the way into the jet. Clint motioned Romanoff to follow and then brought up the rear.

Twelve hours back to New York in a cramped jet. Three trained killers with trust running from thin to nonexistent. And none of them prone to conversation in the first place.

It was going to be a long flight.

* * *

End of Chapter 8

Here's your preview

* * *

_"Maybe it's time to stop protecting me, Phil. I made my choice – I can handle the consequences."_

_"Well what if **I** can't."_

_That brought Clint's eyes from the wall he'd been studying straight to Phil's._

_"I can't **handle** you being put on a priority threat list. I can't  **handle** you leaving SHIELD. I can't  **handle** losing you – not after everything that we've been through."_


	9. Show Me What It's Like

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> As always, VERY SPECIAL thanks to Kylen for being my super awesome beta and putting up with all my craziness :) She also tag-teamed Dan with me in this chapter so everybody together say "Thank you, Kylen!" ((btw - if you love Dan, just WAIT until you see what's still to come :D))
> 
> And now we're on to Chapter 9

  
_Nevertheless, I do know this: even the finest and most self-sacrificing actions must be paid for. Strangely enough, that is what makes them so fine.  
_ _**Seer Narda Chayton** _   


* * *

Phil had never been so grateful for a flight to end, but at the same time wished it would go on forever. It had been the longest, most stressful, most tension-packed flight of his life – and he was so glad the twelve hours of silence had come to an end. But landing meant they had to face the situation – and Clint would have to face what he'd done. And part of Phil – the part that had spent the last three years protecting Clint with everything he had – wanted to stall whatever was coming for as long as he could.

But he knew he couldn't – not any more than he already had.

He had spent the entire flight fighting every instinct he had when it came to Clint. After everything they'd been through – everything that had happened – he wanted nothing more than to ease the tension he saw settled in Clint's posture. To reassure him that everything would turn out all right because Phil would  _make_ it. To tell Clint that they'd figure this out together, just like they'd figured out everything else life threw at them.

But Phil couldn't do any of that. He couldn't reach out to Clint and try to figure things out, because Romanoff was sitting in the seat next to the archer. He couldn't tell him everything was going to be okay because he wasn't sure it would be – wasn't sure it  _could_ be after what Clint had done. He couldn't ease Clint's tension when he didn't even know how to ease his own.

And mostly – he thought Clint was wrong. And for better or for worse, Clint had to learn that for himself. Phil would give anything to change that, but he couldn't. And it was killing him.

As the bay door opened and the jet powered down, Phil stood from his chair and turned to fully face the archer and the Widow. Clint had his quiver hanging loosely from his left hand and for all the world looked completely unconcerned about the situation. But when it came to Clint, Phil could see more than the rest of the world. He could see the exhaustion barely hidden beneath the blank, stone-like expression. He could see the tension concealed in the broad shoulders.

Romanoff was a little harder to read as they moved towards the ramp. Outwardly, she appeared unconcerned and unaffected. And Phil was hard pressed to find any evidence to the contrary. She was a stone-faced, blank wall – unreadable. Phil found himself hoping for something –  _anything_ – to show him that this whole situation carried any meaning for her.

Even when a group of armed SHIELD agents in full tactical gear appeared at the bottom of the ramp, her expression didn't shift. She did glance at Clint, though, who gave her the barest of nods. In unison, they started down the ramp.

"Natasha Romanoff?" The agent bearing the nametag 'Jones' held up a hand to stop them, as soon as they set foot on the hangar floor.

Romanoff's eyebrow arched delicately, and she gave a curt nod.

"I have orders to take you into custody pending the Council's review of you evaluations."

Romanoff didn't reply, but instead turned and placed her hands behind her back. Something told Phil that if it came down to it – handcuffs, no handcuffs, front or back – it wouldn't matter. If she wanted to make trouble, she'd find a way.

They pulled Romanoff a step away and Clint made to follow – no doubt to insure they didn't put a bullet in her brain the moment they were out of sight.

Phil thought he might have been the most surprised by what happened when Jones put his hand on Clint's chest to stop him. Clint knocked the hand away with irritation as if it was nothing more than a nuisance and suddenly there were four automatic rifles pointed at him.

"Agent Barton, I have orders from the Council to take you into custody."

Clint's eyebrow arched, but it was Phil that spoke.

"Do you realize who you're talking to? Agent Barton poses no threat to SHIELD."

"The Council says differently. I have express orders to treat Agent Barton as a hostile force."

"A hostile force?" Clint scoffed. "You're kidding, right?"

Jones just stared at him.

Clint scoffed and shook his head, pulling his bottom lip into his mouth briefly, then he stuck his wrists out.

"Fine – arrest away."

"Clint –" Phil stepped forward. This wasn't right. Clint may have broken the rules, but the Council was taking this too far. This was Clint Barton – maybe the most loyal operative SHIELD had.

_This wasn't right._

Clint sharply shook his head.

"I knew what I was doing, Phil."

"Agent Barton, I'm going to have to ask you to lie down on your stomach and interlace your fingers behind your head."

Clint tossed Jones a glare. The man actually looked like he was enjoying this.

"Is that really necessary? I'm not resisting."

"Either you get on the ground," the four guns pointed at Clint cocked nearly simultaneously, "or I make you."

Clint rolled his eyes. Phil nearly did the same because there was no way Jones was putting Clint on the ground unless Clint let it happen – he and Clint both knew that. He slid his quiver off his shoulder and Phil took it before any of SHIELD's goons could. Clint shot him a grateful look and then slowly went to his knees.

Far more slowly than he should have.

Almost as if the movement was hampered by an injury – or like he was in pain.

Phil's eyes narrowed suspiciously just as Jones lost his patience. Before Phil could intervene, Jones was grabbing Clint's nearest arm – his left – and twisting him forcefully to the ground.

Clint actually let loose a bark of pain.

And suddenly Phil didn't care what the hell Clint had done. He was hurt and that's all that mattered. Clint didn't show weakness. He didn't give into pain, especially not when there was an audience.

Phil made to move forward but there was suddenly a gun barrel at his chest. He glared at the man wielding it before returning his gaze to Clint. He'd gone dangerously pale and was sucking in shallow breaths too quickly.

Phil didn't know if it was his shoulder – if Jones had damaged the still-healing joint while putting Clint on the ground – or if it was something else. But whatever it was needed attention. He got his answer when Jones pulled the freshly-bound archer roughly to his feet.

There was a growing dark stain on the front right side of Clint's jacket. Clint met his eyes briefly and then looked away.

So Phil turned to the only other source he had. Romanoff.

Her eyes were a little wider than they had been a few minutes ago and she answered the unasked question immediately.

"He got shot."

"Jesus, Clint, why the hell didn't you say something?" Phil resisted the urge to knock away the gun separating him from his charge. He could have treated him on the flight, administered antibiotics, stitched up the hole – anything but let him sit there for twelve hours without any care.

Clint just met his gaze briefly and then looked away.

That's when it hit him.

"It was you." He turned his glare on Romanoff. " _You_ shot him."

She had the good grace to look mildly repentant. When had Clint decided to go  _this_ far for a stranger?

"He needs to be taken to the infirmary."

"That's against protocol. All hostile forces are to be transferred directly to holding." Jones sounded downright pleased with himself. He must have been on the losing end of something involving Clint once upon a time.

"He's not a hostile force!" Phil snapped.

"Phil," Clint drew his eyes with the soft demand for attention, "let it go. I'm okay."

"Clint..." He would most definitely  _not_ let this go. Clint and bullets never mixed well.

"Let it go." Clint's tone was sharper this time, warning Phil not to argue with him – not to make trouble for himself.

"You can feel free to continue this conversation in holding." Jones started urging Clint towards the hangar exit. The archer allowed it without resistance. Romanoff trailed behind, led by an agent on either side.

Phil could only look around helplessly as the moved away. Movement on the observation deck above him caught his eye. He looked up in time to see Fury turning away.

Jesus Christ. When had everything gotten so out of hand?

Well, if he couldn't bring Clint to the infirmary, he'd bring the infirmary to Clint. He needed to go find Dan.

* * *

SHIELD staff parted like the Red Sea as Phil stalked through the halls of the base. He didn't know if his expression was unusually stony or if the ever-rising tension he was feeling was bleeding into the air around him – sending off a subliminal signal to get the hell out of his way.

Either way, he was grateful no one tried to slow him down. He just wanted to find Dan, get Clint treated, and then force the Goddamned kid to tell him what the hell was going on. He was sick of being in the dark – about why Clint hadn't followed orders, about why he still helped her after she shot him, about why he didn't tell Phil about  _being_  shot.

He had never been this clueless about what was going through Clint's head. Even four months ago in Croatia he'd  _known_  what Clint was thinking – he just hadn't agreed with him. And that Clint was purposefully shutting him out right now just made the whole thing worse.

By the time the infirmary came into view, Phil was a ball of barely-restrained anxiety. He was so focused on his goal that he didn't even realize someone was coming out just as he was going in. The only thing that saved him and Dan from colliding was the doctor's quick side step.

"Phil."

"I need you to come with me." Phil turned and started back the way he'd come.

"Hold on." Dan caught his arm to stop him. "I just got a call that Barton's been taken into custody and now you're down here looking ready to spit fire. What's going on?"

"Clint decided to make up his own rules." Phil growled, glancing down the hallway and shifting his weight. The urge to get back to Clint – to figure all of this out – was nearly overwhelming. He didn't like being at odds with his agent. It made everything just feel wrong.

"You say that like he hasn't been doing that from day one." Dan crossed his arms casually over his chest and Phil resisted the urge to snap at him for being so flippant.

"This is different – he refused a kill order from the Council."

And just like that Dan's whole demeanor shifted. His gaze darkened and all sense of joking left his expression.

"Kill order on who?"

"Natasha Romanoff."

Dan stepped back – whether in shock or something else, Phil wasn't sure.

"No shit?"

Phil really didn't think that needed a response beyond his exasperated glare.

"Why?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," Phil scoffed. "The kid's not talking."

"Not like that's unusual." Dan's lips quirked.

Phil glared.

"Sorry, defense mechanism." Dan held up his hands in partial defense, partial apology. "Where is he now?"

"In holding."

"And Romanoff? In the wind?"

"No." Phil sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "She's in holding too. Clint brought her in."

"No  _shit_?"

Phil scrubbed a hand across his face and ran his fingers back through his hair as he nodded slowly. He could appreciate the disbelief in Dan's voice.

When he looked back up, though, there was an expression approaching awe on the doctor's face.

"Phil – he didn't just make up his own rules. He made up his own  _game_." Phil could hear just a little bit of giddy laughter in the man's voice. "I can't wait to hear his reasoning on this."

"I don't know if he  _has_  any!" Phil's patience snapped. They were wasting time. "But Clint's in holding with a hole in his side and I need you to shut up and come with me!"

Dan looked ready to snap back, but then Phil's words sunk in.

"Wait – what? Barton's hurt?"

"Why the  _hell_  do you think I came down to find you?"

"Well, why the hell didn't you say that in the first place?"

"Because you kept…" Phil waved his hand uselessly in Dan's direction and blew out a sharp breath.

"Deep breath, Phil, let me grab my gear. He survived a 12-hour flight, he can wait two more minutes. You said he's got a hole – you know from what?"

"Romanoff's bullet."

Dan's eyes widened and his expression took on a quality of shocked surprise that Phil could relate to. Then he just nodded and turned, moving quickly back into the infirmary. Phil barely heard him muttering a familiar phrase as he stuffed supplies into his bag.

"Never the easy way with the damn kid, is it…"

* * *

"Seriously?" Dan complained as the Security Director Calvin Marcus watched him input his ID code and then scan his handprint. "You realize I'm literally the Infirmary Director. It's not like I'm going to try and bust him out."

"Protocol, Dan, you know how it is. With a 'hostile force' in holding, everyone has to check in. Even you, Doc." Marcus glanced at Phil. "You too, Phil." His tone was vaguely apologetic.

Phil didn't respond – just input his ID and pressed his hand to the screen.

They were forced to wait several moments while their identities were confirmed.

"Am I still me? Or has somebody stolen my identity and taken over my life?"

Marcus gave Dan a dry look and waved them both by.

"He's in max-sec cell 3. The other one is in the cell next door. I'll be watching the camera the whole time. I'll buzz you in. You close the door, and give me a signal on his cell camera when you're ready to be buzzed out."

Dan barely resisted questioning why maximum security was necessary when Barton hadn't – that Dan knew of – posed any sort of threat. But he knew what the answer would be – protocol. He was beginning to hate that word as much as Barton did. He had to admit that if Barton decided to be a threat, max-sec wouldn't stop him.

_Might slow him down, but wouldn't stop him._

He and Phil moved down the hallway side by side. Their path to Clint took them right past Romanoff and Dan couldn't help but glance over through the two-by-two reinforced glass window on the door. The young, red-headed beauty was sitting casually on the hard metal cot, looking for all the world like she was right at home. But the look in her eyes when they cut over to watch them pass chilled him right to his core. So that was the woman who had somehow inspired Clint to take the rules and toss them out the window and then tag on a "fuck you, Council" by bringing her in.

Dan could appreciate a good shot at the Council, but he was growing increasingly concerned that Clint had gone too far.

The next door they came to was Clint's. He wasn't sure what to expect – Phil's description of the wound hadn't gone beyond a bullet causing it. He was prepared for everything from Clint passed out on the floor to the archer acting like it was nothing but a paper cut.

When the door buzzed and Phil pulled it open, Dan decided it was somewhere in between. Clint was sitting on the metal cot, back against the wall, and knees pulled up in front of him. The fingers of one of his hands were tapping rhythmically on the metal of the cot. The other hand was pressed against his right side. He was far paler than Dan had seen him in a while, but looked coherent and nowhere near losing consciousness.

"Well if it isn't our very own rebel without a cause."

Clint didn't look amused and wrapped his response up in a dry glare that spoke volumes. The glare was so familiar that Dan almost smiled. He moved farther into the small cell and heard Phil follow and then pull the door closed.

"I hear you got yourself clipped again. Let me take a look?"

Clint's only response was to straighten his legs out to give Dan access to the wound. Apparently Clint was feeling even less chatty than usual. Dan tossed a glance at Phil, who had leaned back against the wall and crossed his arms, his expression unreadable and his eyes pinned on Clint. Dan looked back at Clint and wasn't surprised to see the archer staring right back at his handler. Whatever silent conversation that was occurring raised the tension level in the room to a nearly unbearable level, then abruptly ended a moment later when Clint's blue-gray gaze shifted to Dan.

Seeing that as permission to approach, Dan moved to sit on the cot next to Clint's hip. Clint's jacket had already been shed and was lying in a pile on the floor. Carefully, Dan lifted the edge of Clint's shirt and frowned at the bloody, wet bandage.

"You treat this yourself?"

Clint nodded once.

"Bullet out?"

He nodded again.

"Cleaned it?"

Another nod. Dan gave the archer a mildly annoyed glare.

"With?" he pressed.

"Soap and water." Clint voice was low and gravely and it had Dan reaching into his bag for one of the bottles of water he'd brought. He unscrewed the cap and pushed the bottle into Clint's hand. Clint obeyed the unspoken command and brought the bottle to his lips.

Dan winced as he pulled the corner of the bandage back and the muscles on Clint's abdomen jumped.

"Doesn't look too bad, but I'm gonna need you to lay out, kid."

Dan took the bottle back when Clint held it out and then let the young man slide down the cot until he was flat on his back.

"Gonna have to clean it again," Dan informed as he reached for the proper equipment in his bag. "I want to get a transfusion going, too, and a line of antibiotics … Phil?" Dan turned back to his friend.

Phil's chin lifted to show he was listening.

"Tell Marcus I need a pint from Clint's stock from the infirmary and to have Julie pull a round of antibiotics."

Phil nodded and motioned at the small camera protected in a metal cage in the top corner of the room. The door buzzed a moment later and Phil was gone.

"You know he'll only be gone long enough to deliver that message, Wilson – so whatever you got to say, say it."

Dan had always admired Clint's uncanny perceptiveness – and bluntness, for that matter.

"Do I need to be worried?"

When Clint turned his head and looked away, Dan had all the answer he needed.

"Shit, kid."

Dan sighed and started cleaning the wound. Clint's jaw clenched and his eyes turned their focus to the ceiling.

"You have to know Phil's all twisted up again." Dan got a nod in response, so he went on. "Do I need to be on the lookout for another Croatia-level meltdown?"

Clint's jaw twitched.

"Cuz for the record, you've put Phil through enough and if anyone deserves for you to be straight up right now, it's him."

"It's not that simple."

"Then simplify it."

"I CAN'T!" Clint snapped up into a sitting position so fast that Dan barely managed to get out of the way. Barton's eyes leveled a glare on him that would've cut stone.

Then the pain caught up with him, and he doubled over, gasping as his face turned a shade paler than before.

"EASY, Barton, Jesus!" Dan caught Clint's shoulder in his hand. "You're no rookie when it comes to bullets. You know you can't move like that." Dan frowned at the swelling he suddenly became aware of in Barton's shoulder. He tried to ease the kid back down, but Barton fought against him.

"There is no  _simplifying_  it! I can't simplify something I don't even understand!"

"Calm the hell down, Barton. Get your breathing under control and lay the fuck down, or I'll put you down."

Clint blinked – as if he was only now realizing that he was sucking in fast shallow breaths. He paled another shade and let Dan push him back onto the cot.

"What do you mean, you don't understand?"

Clint shook his head – not in denial, but in frustration. Dan was surprised to see honest and real confusion and conflict playing out in the archer's eyes. He really had no idea how to put his reasoning into words. But before Dan had a chance to comment on this newfound realization, the door buzzed and Phil was stepping back in.

His eyebrow arched as he took in Clint's erratic breathing and Dan's restraining hand on his shoulder. His gaze turned accusing and he leveled a glare at Dan. Dan threw his hands up in the air at the look.

"Oh, don't start that glaring shit again. Blame your protégée here, because for a change, it's all his fault."

Phil's eyebrows rose in bemused surprise, and Dan was sure if he hadn't been just inside the door, Phil's surprise would have had him stepping back.

"What happened?" The tone seemed level enough, so Dan figured blaming it on the wounded had been the right approach. It helped that the wounded was Clint and when the words "wounded" and "Clint" were used in the same sentence, Phil was a fairly predictable, over-protective softy.

" _He_  decided to do sit-ups with a bullet hole in his side. And  _he_ knows better." Dan tossed Barton a mildly scolding glare and the archer glared right back, but kept his mouth shut. Phil, meanwhile, shook his head in what Dan was pretty sure was exasperated amusement, and walked over to get a look at Barton's stomach.

 _Good._  Dan now had faith they'd all survive the next five minutes. He went back to cleaning the wound, Barton went back to glaring at the ceiling, and Phil hovered behind Dan's shoulder.

"What's the ETA on the stuff I asked for?" Dan mostly asked the question because he didn't do silence as well as his two cellmates. He was fairly certain Julie would be here momentarily. Phil replied quickly and succinctly.

"Marcus called down to the infirmary. Julie is on her way."

Dan nodded and they fell back into silence. Once the wound was cleaned, Dan pressed gauze into it in hopes of stopping the bleeding. Clint really didn't need to lose any more than he already had. Once he was satisfied, he tossed the soiled gauze into the trash bag he'd brought with him and reached for the antibiotic cream. He was just finishing smearing it on the wound when the door buzzed.

Phil moved to answer it as Dan tapped down a fresh bandage.

"And you accused me of being a vampire when I made you donate to the blood bank last month. I just knew if anyone would be better off with their own blood on tap, it'd be  _you_." Dan teased as he waited for Phil to retrieve the blood and antibiotics from Marcus at the door. He seriously doubted they had let Julie through security.

Clint's lips quirked in weak amusement.

Dan sighed and patted his shoulder gently.

"You'll feel better after the transfusion. Meanwhile, let's get you upright so I can check that shoulder. Wanna tell me what happened to  _it_?"

Dan helped Clint ease into a sitting position and shift to lean back against the wall just as Phil returned, blood bag in one hand, antibiotics in the other. Clint leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes as Dan got the transfusion hooked up.

"The ass that cuffed me took 'hostile force' in the most literal terms possible. Put me down hard."

Dan nodded and taped the blood bag to the wall. He started the line for the antibiotics next and taped that bag up next to the blood. He held his hand out and Clint immediately raised his left hand to grip Dan's. The doctor placed his other hand on Clint's shoulder.

"Do your rotations."

Dan could feel Phil's sharp gaze on them as he worked Clint through his shoulder rotations. When he let Clint have his arm back, both men pinned him with tense, questioning looks.

"Everything feels fine, just a little inflamed. I'll give you an ice pack and some Ibuprofen and you'll be fine."

Phil and Clint's sighs of relief were practically synchronized. Dan leaned over to retrieve an ice pack. He handed it to Clint – trusting the agent knew how to operate it – and leaned back to pack his gear.

"He good to go?" Phil asked as he watched him.

"I've done what I can. He'll be fine."

"Then can you give us the room?"

Dan looked up at Phil – then at Clint. Yeah, he was pretty sure he didn't want to be here for this.

"Just promise me no bloodshed."

Phil rolled his eyes. Dan gathered his bag and stood.

"I'm serious, Phil. He needs to take it easy."

"Dan…"

"I know all too well how conversations  _escalate_  with you two."

"Dan." Phil's tone turned sharp – and his glare sharper – clearly communicating that he was pissed that Dan would even suggest he couldn't look out for Clint's well-being. Like it wasn't on the forefront in his mind.

Dan raised his free hand in defense and stepped past Phil to the door, motioning at the camera as he went. The door buzzed but before he stepped out he looked back at Clint.

"I'll be back in an hour to check on you."

The archer nodded and Dan stepped out, closing the door behind him.

* * *

Clint watched the door click closed, listened to the automatic lock engage and resolutely kept his eyes pointed straight ahead. He heard Phil sigh and then his handler was easing himself down to sit on the other end of the cot.

"You feeling better?"

Clint nodded. Phil nodded in return and for a long moment they just sat in silence.

"So are you ready to tell me what's going on?"

Clint swallowed. Phil sounded so much like he wanted to just  _understand_ , like he would listen to whatever Clint had to say. The problem was, Clint didn't know  _what_  to say – didn't even know where to start.

So he didn't say anything. He knew it would piss Phil off – that his handler wanted answers, not more silence. But he didn't know what else to do.

Phil shot up from the cot with a huff of frustration and paced across the small cell.

"Goddamn it, Clint!"

Clint swallowed and shifted the ice pack on his shoulder. Phil turned back to him, his expression a painful mixture of confusion, frustration, and  _hurt_.

"Do you realize that any minute the Council could call for you? I can't protect you if you don't tell me what's going on."

"Maybe it's time to stop protecting me, Phil. I made my choice. I can handle the consequences."

"Well what if  _I_  can't?"

That brought Clint's eyes from the wall he'd been studying straight to Phil's.

"I can't  _handle_  you being put on a priority threat list. I can't  _handle_  you leaving SHIELD. I can't  _handle_  losing you – not after everything that we've been through."

Clint's jaw clenched at the emotion Phil let bleed into his tone. Phil didn't let emotion show – he was as stoic as they came – except when it came to Clint. Clint was the kryptonite to Phil's Superman, had been for three years.

"Let me help you, Clint."

Clint chewed his lower lip and racked his brain. Phil was right. He needed someone in his corner when he met with the Council. There was no one better for that job than Phil. He  _had_ to figure out a way to explain why he'd done what he'd done.

"I couldn't kill her." He stated it quietly, watched Phil's focus zero in on him like a homing beacon "I had her, Phil. I had an arrow pointed at her heart."

"And what happened?" Phil asked carefully, his eyes locked on Clint's.

"I just…." Clint shrugged helplessly, "couldn't."

How was he supposed to describe a gut feeling – an instinct? How was he supposed to make that sound like a valid reason to defy the Council? How was he supposed to make Phil understand that he just  _couldn't_  kill her?

"You've never questioned a kill order before – and there were more than enough reasons to take out Romanoff."

"I know that."

"Then why was this different?" Phil sounded as frustrated and confused as Clint felt.

"I don't know."

"You  _do_  know, Clint! Or you wouldn't have done it!"

Phil threw his hands up and turned away briefly. Clint swallowed thickly and ran through a dozen explanations in his head – and then threw them all out one by one because they just weren't  _right_. When Phil spoke again, his words were quiet – and regretful.

"Maybe we put you back in too early. Maybe you weren't ready."

"I  _was_ ready." Clint knew he sounded defensive, but damn it, this wasn't about his ability to do his job. Phil turned back, his expression a touch condescending.

"Obviously not, if you couldn't pull the trigger when it mattered."

"That's not why I didn't do it."

"Then give me a better reason!" Phil's tone was hard with aggravated frustration.

Clint threw down his ice pack and stood to face him, careful not to pull the two lines he had attached to his arm.

"I was gonna do it – I was  _ready_  to do it! But right before I let the arrow fly – something inside me told me to STOP!"

Phil's head tilted curiously but Clint barely noticed.

" _Every_ instinct I had was telling me not to do it. So yeah – I  _couldn't_. But not because I wasn't ready – because it was  _wrong!_ "

"She's a murderer!"

"And what the hell was  _I_  when you found me?"

That brought Phil up short.

"It's not the same situation."

"Why? Because the Council hadn't issued the kill order yet?" Clint shot back. "And how long would it have taken if I had told you no?"

It was Phil's turn to look away.

"Or maybe it's different because I  _chose_  to be a killer. Romanoff was inducted into it a  _child_. She didn't know anything else."

"So you decided to just take things into your own hands?"

"I decided that I was gonna give her what you gave me – a chance to be better."

"I wasn't holding a gun to your head, Clint. You made that choice because it's what you wanted – not because you didn't have another one."

"She wants this, too."

"How the hell can you know that? Did she tell you?" Phil's sarcasm was thick and Clint had to resist the urge to fling something back with equal bite.

"I just know – I can see something better in her."

"You can  _see_  something? You gonna take  _that_  to the Council?"

Clint really didn't need the reminder that he was going to have to answer to that group of asshats in the near future.

"She had a chance to get away clean, and she didn't take it. She chose to  _save_ me when she could have left me – injured – to face the other assassin alone. And later, when I gave her a chance to walk away, she  _didn't take it._ "

Clint threw every emotion he'd been dealing with the past day into his explanation.  _Willed_  Phil to believe him – to understand why he'd done it. That he hadn't made the wrong choice.

"You gave her a chance to walk away?" Phil sounded more baffled than angry about that, but there was an underlying hint of anger that warned Clint to tread carefully.

Suddenly drained, Clint dropped back down onto the hard cot.

"When I was waiting for your call back." He swallowed and then felt the need to go on. "I wouldn't have let her walk, Phil, but she didn't know that. She chose to stay, to come back here with me."

Phil sighed and moved to sit down next to him.

"She could be using you."

"Maybe," Clint admitted. "But I don't think she is."

"You could lose everything, Clint."

An unexpected swell of fear swept through him and made it hard to breath for a moment. As much as he knew it could happen – had accepted it as a possible consequence for what he'd done – he wasn't ready for it. He wasn't ready for SHIELD to turn their backs on him – to have to walk away from Phil.

"I know."

There was far more emotion in his tone than he ever would have allowed under normal circumstances. He heard Phil sigh and then there was a hand gripping his right shoulder.

"I think I understand why you did it. You have better instincts than anybody I've ever known. But Clint – you did it all wrong. There was a better way. You could have come to me – we could have figured out a way to do this that didn't end with you in here."

Phil motioned around the small cell.

"Should I be flattered that they put me in max-sec?" Clint forced a weak smirk.

"Clint."

Clint hadn't really expected to get away with that deflection.

"It all happened so fast. I didn't have a chance to do anything but act."

"And what about refusing a kill order without giving a reason and then hanging up on me? Refusing to explain yourself?  _Manipulating_ me into helping you? You can't say you didn't have a chance to think about  _all_ of that."

"I couldn't see another way."

"Clint, there's  _always_  another way. You know that better than anyone."

Clint's jaw twitched as he looked down at his hands. He was supposed to see the big picture – he was supposed to be the best at that. He always saw all the options, all the choices. He hadn't seen any other way this time.

"Can you honestly tell me that, if I had called in and gone through the right channels to get her brought in, that they would have agreed?"

Phil sighed. Clint knew it was because Phil knew the answer was no.

"They would have told me to kill her – and I would have said no."

"You don't know that, Clint, because you didn't  _try_. Instead you acted rashly and now we have to face the fallout of that choice."

Clint shook his head sadly. Phil still didn't get it. Phil thought Clint hadn't seen the big picture. But he had – maybe clearer than he ever had before – and he done what he had to so that he could live with himself.

"I did what I had to do, Phil. I won't apologize for that, or for the choices that I made. Not to you, and not to the Council. I did the right thing. I  _know_ that – and whether you or anyone else knows that doesn't matter."

But it  _did_  matter – it mattered a hell of a lot if Phil believed him – believed  _in_  him.

"I believe that  _you_  believe that, kid. And I hope to hell you're right."

"I have to be."

Phil nodded and looked down at his pocket when it started ringing. He fished out his phone and slid his finger across it, then pressed it to his ear.

"Coulson." There was a pause as he listened to the person on the other end of the line. "Yes, sir."

And then he pulled the phone away and ended the call. He slid the phone back into his pocket and sighed.

"That was Fury."

"The Council's ready." Clint drew the conclusion easily – and was surprised by the shot of anxiety he felt at the realization. He'd faced the Council before, but it had never had this much riding on the outcome.

"Yeah." Phil was silent for a moment. "I'll back your play, Clint. I don't agree with how you did it – I don't think it was the right call…but I understand  _why_  you did it and I could never ask you to do anything but follow your gut." He paused again. "And hell – I'm  _proud_  of you for standing up for what you think is right."

Clint wasn't prepared for the overwhelming wave of relief that crashed over him. Quickly following that relief was a new wave of strength. With Phil backing him, he stood a chance of coming out on the right side of this. Whether the man agreed with him or not – forgave him or not – could be dealt with later.

And more importantly, it meant that what he'd broken between him and Phil by doing what he'd done could be fixed – was already on the mend. And that was enough motivation to fight for his place at SHIELD – to do anything he could to keep the Council from taking it away from him.

* * *

End of Chapter 9

Whew...poor Clint...poor Phil...poor EVERYONE! *grins evilly* Don't worry, it'll get worse before it gets better...

Here's your preview!

* * *

_"The decisions you make don't just affect you. They have the potential to send shock-waves through the entire organization. You may be a solo operative, but this is **not**  a solo operation."_

_"And what the hell do you do? Every time you tell the Council to shove it up their asses? How is that any different?"_

_"Because I'm the goddamned **director**. And I get  **my**  ass reamed for it every time – but lucky for me, they need unanimous vote to kick me to the curb. It's not so with you, Barton."_


	10. To Be The Last One Standing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> As usual - thanks to Kylen my awesome beta. You cannot even image how amazing she is!
> 
> And here comes Chapter 10

  
_As soon as sacrifice becomes a duty and necessity to mankind. I see no limit to the horizon which opens before him.  
_ _**Ernest Renan** _   


* * *

Part of Natasha wished the walls were soundproof, because the constant low murmur of conversation – which, of course, she could only hear the tone of – was driving her crazy. She hated not understanding what anyone in the cell next to her was saying, especially when those murmured tones had risen to muffled shouts several times. The only time she'd gotten a clear read on what was being said was when the hulking dark-skinned man that had put her in this cell had delivered something to Barton's cell. With the door open for the exchange, she'd actually been able to hear the short conversation.

The guard was delivering blood and antibiotics. Which meant the other man she'd seen go to Barton's cell with Agent Coulson had to be a doctor. Beyond that, she knew nothing more than that nobody seemed to be particularly pleased with Barton at the moment.

It was annoyingly infuriating – mostly because she shouldn't  _care_ what was going on next door. But for some reason, she'd been unreasonably curious about Barton ever since she'd given him a concussion in that alley. That unreasonable curiosity had her unduly frustrated that she couldn't hear what was going on.

On the other hand, if the walls  _were_  soundproof, she'd be trapped in absolute silence. She thought that might have been worse.

She arched an intrigued eyebrow when she saw several armed men march past her door towards Barton's.

She'd gotten the impression, when he'd been so surprised by being labeled a 'hostile force,' that Barton wasn't used to this type of treatment, wasn't used to being considered a threat amongst his own. It was a feeling  _she_  was extensively familiar with.

At least they'd granted him medical treatment. It was more than the Program would have done for her. She did feel a little bad about shooting him – now that it had become apparent that he was on the level about helping her – but it had seemed like the right thing to do at the time.

And she  _could_  have killed him. He'd given her all the opening she'd needed – she counted it to her credit that she hadn't. Some instinct – when she'd pulled the trigger – had her sending the bullet at his side instead of his heart.

She'd needed some control back – that had been part of it – and giving Barton a similar handicap to the one she was dealing with considering her broken ribs had seemed a good way to do that.

But it was more than that. It was like part of her had known he was there to help her before she'd ever truly realized it – or admitted it.

And maybe a tiny part of her was just a little curious – curious and a little fascinated by this blonde-haired, blue-gray eyed archer who should have killed her … and hadn't.

She was pulled from her reflection when she suddenly heard conversation – clear enough that if she focused she could make out the words. Somehow she'd missed Barton's door unlocking and opening. She found herself leaning forward, straining to get some handle on what was going on – what was happening to the man that had saved her life.

" _We have orders to escort the prisoner to the Council Chambers forthwith."_

Her eyebrow arched of its own accord – she didn't know what the "council chambers" were or what "council" they housed – but it sounded unreasonably foreboding.

" _Only four of you? I'm a little insulted."_

That was definitely Barton. Even after such a short time, she'd grown familiar with the low, intense tone he spoke in – and the sarcastic humor. There was silence for a few moments and then Barton was speaking again.

" _Fine. Let's go. Wouldn't want to keep the_ _ **Council**_ _waiting."_

The way he spat the title told her that her instinct about this "council" was spot on. They were most definitely not good news.

" _Clint, you aren't supposed to just pull those out."_

" _I can't exactly take them with me. I clipped them off first, Phil – jeeze."_

Natasha tilted her head curiously. The way the two were talking to each other – it was different from what she'd observed so far between agent and handler. On the phone Barton had been agitated and clipped in his side of the conversation. Then at the airstrip, things had been almost unbearably tense – and it hadn't improved for the 12 hours of flight time that had followed. There'd been a hint of something more familiar between them – when they'd landed and been promptly taken into custody – but it had been buried under the weight of the situation.

Now she heard it loud and clear. These two men weren't just handler and agent. They were something deeper – friends, maybe. But that didn't seem right either. Something in their tones was too familiar – even for friends. It was how she'd heard families talk to each other.

She was given no more time to contemplate before Barton was being frog marched past her door. Part of her wanted to move to the window – to track him all the way down the hall. But she resisted the urge. She shouldn't care what happened to him. She  _shouldn't_.

But for some reason, she did.

Because he was being treated like an enemy amongst his own people now – treated like a threat – all because of what he'd done for her. And if what she heard in Barton and Agent Coulson's tones was real – if they were like family to each other – Barton had risked losing much more than his job when he decided to let her live. When he'd looked at her and decided she was worth fighting for.

If they both came out on top of this, she wasn't sure that was a debt she'd ever be able to repay.

* * *

The walk to the Council Chambers should have annoyed Clint – should have humiliated him. He was paraded – in handcuffs – through the heart of the SHIELD base. He was openly gawked at by all the staff on duty, and there was a crowd of off-duty staff hanging out near the hallways that led to the residence halls.

But it didn't bother him.

He had been an outsider to these people since the day he arrived at SHIELD. He couldn't give two shits what any of them thought about him.

What did bother him was Wilson and Bryan waiting outside the Council Chambers, seemingly for him to arrive. Wilson he'd already seen, but sitting in a cell was a little different than being escorted by heavily armed guard in handcuffs. And Bryan – he just looked so damn confused.

Clint knew these men well – respected them. It  _was_  humiliating to have them see him like this. It was hard to force himself to meet their eyes when his little convoy rolled to a stop, but he did it anyway.

Wilson was eyeing him critically, no doubt internally ranting about the absence of the two lines he'd put in less than fifteen minutes ago that were now taped uselessly to the wall in Clint's cell.

Bryan looked like he was trying not to let his disappointment show, but was failing miserably. But the real kicker there was that Bryan looked away first – like he couldn't stand the sight of him.

Clint put his eyes on the floor.

He'd done the right thing. He'd even convinced Phil to back him up. It shouldn't matter what anyone else thought. He hadn't thought it would – until he was slapped in the face with it.

He didn't even want to think about what Fury was going to say.

"Fury's waiting inside." It was Wilson that volunteered the information. "And he said he wants you to come in alone."

"What?" Phil practically snarled.

Wilson's hands went up in a show of defense.

"Don't kill the messenger. I'm just following orders."

The way Wilson's eyes cut to Clint after he said that  _stung_.

"It'll be fine, Phil." Clint didn't look at anyone – chose instead to focus on the door separating him from Fury. "I can handle it."

The beat of uncomfortable silence that followed told him that no one really believed that at the moment.

"Can I at least lose the cuffs?"

Marcus just stared at him.

"Seriously? I think Fury could handle me if I go postal."

Marcus continued to stare.

Clint rolled his eyes.

"Then you're gonna have to open the door. I may be flexible but even I have my limits."

Phil was the one that stepped forward, guiding Clint by the bicep to the door.

"Remember everything you just told me?" Phil asked as he pressed his hand against the palm reader on the wall. Clint didn't feel like that really needed a response. "Don't forget how much you believe it."

Then the door was open and Clint stepping inside.

* * *

The screens were dark and the room was empty of everyone except for Fury and one tech guy who was hidden behind a consol. Clint walked straight for the director, coming to a stop only when they were toe-to-toe.

For a long moment, they just stared at each other.

Fury had been mad at him before – infuriated, even – but the level of rage boiling behind his boss's eyes right now was something Clint had never seen. Part of him started to wonder if Fury was as ready to fire him as the Council undoubtedly was.

"When we're done here, you and I are going to have a conversation."

Clint was looking forward to that less than he was looking forward to talking to the Council. He hated the Council – didn't have a problem pissing them off and didn't give a flying fuck what they thought of him. But Fury was another matter. While he took personal pleasure in pushing the director's buttons – took it as a personal mission to cause the man aggravation on a semi-regular basis – he didn't dislike Fury. And more than that, he respected him fiercely.

He was not looking forward to seeing exactly how far he'd fallen in the man's regard.

Fury didn't wait for him to reply. He turned instead to the tech and nodded.

Immediately, the screens flickered to life and one by one faces started to appear.

"You're dismissed." Fury didn't look at the tech, but the man seemed to know he was the one being asked to leave. He scurried out quickly just as the final screen came to life.

Clint swallowed, squared his shoulders, and faced the screens.

" _Agent Barton."_

The man looked unreasonably pleased about the whole situation. The quasi-leader of the Council was one of Clint's least favorite people in the world and he wanted nothing more than to wipe the self-satisfied smirk off the man's face.

" _You've been charged dereliction of duty. If we were an official branch of the military then –"_

"But we're  _not,_  are we – an  _official_  branch of the military."

The room went absolutely silent at his interruption. Clint wasn't sure why, but just that opening statement had him fuming. These people didn't have the first clue about what it meant to sweat and bleed for something other than their own selfish purposes, and they wanted to judge him for making a snap decision in an intense, in-the-field moment – a situation they only knew about from a file.

Phil was right. He needed to step up and finish what he'd started.

"So let's stop pretending you have any idea what ' _duty_ ' really is and get to the point."

Even Fury was staring at him, expression unreadable.

" _Fine. Do you care to explain to the Council why you refused a direct kill order?"_

"I made a call in the field." Clint arched an eyebrow. "It's not the first time."

" _You didn't have the authority to make that call."_

"That's bullshit." The room fell to shocked silence again even as Clint forged on. "I'm the one pulling the trigger. When I'm in the field, it  _is_  my call."

" _We're the ones that pull the trigger, Agent Barton. We're the ones that aim the goddamned gun. You're just the bullet. Your job is to hit what we aim you at."_

Something in Clint snapped. He wasn't just a bullet in a gun – not anymore. He was a goddamned human being with every right to make his own decisions, especially when it came to taking someone's life.

"My  _job_  is to act in the best interest of SHIELD and all the countries it protects." He set his tone on a razor's edge and felt Fury's eyes settle on him again. "I did my job – did  _you_?"

The silence that followed was so charged that Clint was sure every person tuned in could feel it.

" _I don't know what the hell you think you're implying…"_

Clint would gladly clear that up. He was on a roll now, no use tapping the brakes.

"The Council didn't consider bringing her in as an asset before issuing the kill order. Why?"

" _The decision of the Council are not yours to question."_

"But they are mine." Fury's tone was hard enough to cut stone. "Romanoff has a skill set unparalleled by anyone in our organization, even Agent Barton. An attempt to bring her in as an asset should have been our first move. Instead, you issued the kill order. Why?"

" _Natasha Romanoff is a violent and dangerous murderer –"_

"And what are we?" Fury scoffed. "Altar boys? We're all violent and dangerous. The only difference between us and Romanoff is point of view."

Clint couldn't help but mentally cheer Fury on.

" _Director Fury, we are not here to discuss the methods of the Council. We're here to decide Agent Barton's fate."_

"Yeah – about that." Fury shifted so he was a step in front of Clint. "Agent Barton is under  _my_  command. And correct me if I'm wrong," the level of condescension that bled into Fury's tone had Clint resisting the urge to smirk, "but it is beyond the Council's authority to assign disciplinary action to an individual agent."

The man on the screen practically had smoke coming out of his ears.

" _Unless that disciplinary action involves him being terminated from SHIELD – and that which would subsequently follow."_

They were talking about putting him on the priority threat list – deporting him. Clint watched Fury straighten – squaring his shoulders. Instinctively, Clint did the same.

"Which it won't."

 _Holy shit._  Fury was protecting him. Clint couldn't help but stare at the director's back in shock.

" _Excuse me? What authority…"_

"The last time I checked,  _I_  was the director of this whole goddamned organization. And I will  _not_  lose my best agent because the Council had its head so far up its ass that my agent had to do  _its_  job  _and_  his."

" _Director Fury, the Council has every right to terminate an agent on the basis of dereliction of duty."_

"Which this isn't. As far as I can see it, Agent Barton saw an opportunity – an opportunity the  _Council_  should have seen. And he seized it. He did exactly what he was trained to do."

" _Director…"_

"Thank you for your time, but I think the situation has been resolved."

" _There's still the matter of Agent Barto…"_

"Any matter concerning Agent Barton is no longer the concern of the Council. He'll be dealt with as I see fit."

Fury turned, stepped to the console and pressed a button. The screens went abruptly black.

Clint just stared open mouthed at where the faces had been just a moment ago. Fury was already moving to the door. He yanked it open and strode out.

"Escort Agent Barton back to his cell. I'll call for him when I've decided what to do with him."

As the four guards moved into the room to do as instructed – Clint could only follow in stunned shock. Phil was hovering just outside the door – his eyes worried. His gaze asked without words if everything was okay.

Clint could only nod.

"I'll meet you in your cell in a few minutes."

He nodded dumbly again and watched Phil take off in pursuit of the black trench coat disappearing around the corner.

_What the_ _**hell** _ _had just happened?_

* * *

Phil rounded the corner and pulled to a stop. Fury was standing with his hands braced against the railing that ran along the open hallway in front of his office. He was looking over the heart of the SHIELD command center with his face set in a deep scowl.

Phil took a breath and moved to stand next to him. For a moment they just looked out over the hum of activity below them. Abruptly all conversations stopped and all eyes turned to watch Clint be escorted through the command center.

"The Council isn't coming after him, Phil."

Phil released a relieved breath.

"Thank you."

Fury turned to give him a dry look with his one good eye.

"I didn't do it for you – and I didn't do it for Barton. I did it because he's a goddamned fine operative and we've invested too damn much to feed him to the wolves over one mistake."

"Mistake." Phil didn't know why that word suddenly didn't seem right – didn't fit what had happened. Fury turned fully, facing Phil and crossing his arms over his chest.

"That  _is_  what this cluster-fuck of a situation is – Barton's mistake that we are now tasked with cleaning up."

"But Romanoff  _would_ make a good asset – you can't deny that."

"Sure –  _if_  she can be trained.  _If_  this isn't just a trick to infiltrate our organization.  _If_  she's not preparing to go on a killing spree from the holding cells out – which we  _both_ know she's more than capable of."

Phil rubbed a hand across his face.

"Clint is smarter than that."

"Yeah, I thought so, too."

Phil couldn't let that slight stand.

"He's too sharp to get manipulated like that. You know that just as well as I do."

Fury sighed and made a wry face.

"He always  _has_  been too perceptive for his own good."

Phil couldn't help but let his lips quirk in agreement.

For a moment they were both silent. When Fury continued his tone was harder.

"Barton has always pushed the envelope, Phil. He's always stuck his toes across the line just for shits and giggles. But this time he went too far – and the  _only_  reason I'm not letting the Council kick him to the curb is that it would be a damn fine waste of talent."

"Understood."

"But make no mistake – he  _will_  answer to  _me_  for this little incident. And while my shit list may be long, Barton has clawed his way right to the top. I want him in my office in ten minutes."

Phil nodded. He didn't really expect any different. Better for Clint to answer to Fury – a man who actually cared one way or another about him – than to the Council. But he needed Fury to understand – at least a little – about why Clint had made this choice.

Fury had just turned away when Phil's called him back.

"Sir."

Fury turned, arching an eyebrow expectantly.

"I know he didn't do this right. I know he deserves whatever you've decided he has coming."

"But?" Fury sighed.

"But Clint doesn't do anything without a reason. We know that better than anyone."

Fury rolled his eye. Phil knew they'd both had to deal with Clint's odd moral demands a time or two.

"We gave him a hell of enough reasons to kill her, Phil."

Phil nodded.

"And whatever reasons he had for saying no had to have outweighed what we know about the situation, sir. He wouldn't have done this – risked everything – if he didn't  _know_  it was the right call."

Fury nodded slowly – contemplatively.

"And what about you, Phil? Do  _you_  think it was the right call?"

Did he? He wasn't sure yet. Would he back Clint anyway? Definitely. Clint deserved at least that much from him.

"I think that we won't really know the answer to that until she goes into training."

Fury inclined his head.

"I just want you to remember, when you talk to him, that he had his reasons – whether we understand and agree with them or not."

"I get that, Phil. But I can't have my operatives just saying 'no' whenever the mood strikes them in the field. I can't let him get away with it just because it's Barton."

"I know. And I know that doesn't excuse the way he went about it –  _believe_  me."

"Then you also know I can't just give him a slap on the wrist. He's looking at real disciplinary action."

Phil nodded.

"He's looking at shit assignments for the foreseeable future, restricted clearance – he's gonna earn his way back into my good graces."

Phil's lips quirked.

"Good graces? Clint?"

Fury smirked.

"I guess that  _is_  aiming a little high." The smirk fell away. "I want him in my office in ten – and then I want him off my base. I don't care where you send him. Just get him out of here until this blows over and I feel less like killing him myself."

Phil nodded. He could relate to that level of frustration. He still felt his blood boil when he thought of how Clint had chosen to go about this. There had been a better way – there  _had_ to have been a better way.

"I can put him on the Uzbekistan assignment – it's a Level 1 and it's about time it came through the rotation."

Fury nodded.

"Dan might not let him go." Phil felt he had to at least bring that to Fury's attention.

Fury's eyebrow quirked.

"I'll handle Wilson. Get the assignment details and have Barton sent up."

Phil nodded and Fury turned away.

They'd come out on top of this –  _somehow_. Clint was safe. Romanoff was… _here_. And all that was left was starting to rebuild the trust Clint had destroyed. And if Level 1 assignments were the way to do that, then that's what Clint would do.

* * *

Clint stared at Fury's door and waited. He'd already knocked. The Director was sweating him out now – testing his patience.

But Fury and Clint had both learned long ago – that patience was something Clint came by easily. And he would  _find_  a way to pass the time if given the means.

* * *

_Two years and 4 months ago…_

* * *

Clint chewed the inside of his lip as he waited. He rocked back on his heels, rolled his eyes up and around, before finally blowing out a breath. The abrupt sound of laughter had him turning and looking over the railing down at the command center.

A group of recruits were being led through on a tour of some sort. He remembered getting a similar tour when he was recruited. A sudden smirk lit his face and he reached into his back pocket. Phil had been forcing him to take notes during their tactical training session this morning.

Clint had spent the time drawing elaborate stick figures battling out scenes from  _The_   _Lord of the Rings._

In moments, he could have a handful of tiny paper balls to use as ammunition. He was too exposed on Fury's railed hallway so he scanned the immediate area for a better vantage point. His eyes settled on the interconnecting catwalks and his lips curved into a grin.

If Fury wanted to make him wait, Clint would make good use of the time.

Getting onto the rarely-used catwalks without being spotted was laughably easy. Getting a clean line of fire at the group of recruits was even easier. To make things even better, a wave of inspired genius had struck him as he had made the stealthy trek up to his perch.

Inspired by nothing more than an abandoned fast-food soda cup. Or at least Clint assumed it was abandoned – nobody had been drinking out of it when he stole the straw.

He tore off a bit of paper and crumpled it into a tiny ball and then popped it in his mouth. He brought the straw to his lips and aimed carefully.

The first spitball hit a recruit right on one of the lenses of his glasses.

After that, Clint fell into rapid fire mode.

The first hail of paper ammunition drew confused shouts of surprise. The second wave had people raising clip boards over their heads and ducking under desks. The third had recruits scattering away from their training officer like scared cats.

By the time he ran out of paper, people were shouting below him, and Clint was sprawled on his back on the catwalk laughing hysterically. He wanted so badly to shout that it was _only_  paper. But he didn't think he had the breath.

"What the  _hell_  is going on here?"

Clint leaned over the edge of the catwalk and saw Fury looking over his railing. He watched the director process the scene below him and then look unerringly up at the catwalks.

"BARTON!"

Clint couldn't help it – he rolled back onto his back and started laughing again. He'd bet all the money in his offshore bank account that Fury wouldn't ever make him wait again.

* * *

_Present_

* * *

Clint blinked when the sharp call to 'enter' finally came. He reached for the door handle – finally and mercifully freed of the handcuffs and his armed escort. Phil had arrived in the holding area not long after Clint had been returned to it. He'd had Clint freed in less than two minutes with fast talking and a threat to call Fury.

Clint had then been promptly ordered to Fury's office – where he'd proceeded to stand and wait for nearly ten minutes. It was a test – he was sure – to see if he would dare step out of line while already in such deep shit.

He hadn't.

Fury was standing with his hands linked behind his back – looking out of his large window when Clint came in. Clint came to the center of the room and waited, hands folded behind him and legs spread slightly – the closest to parade rest he got these days.

Most days, Clint took pleasure in riling Fury up. But most days, the director hadn't just pulled his ass out of the fire. Most days, Clint hadn't just done something that equivocated to telling SHIELD to 'go fuck itself'.

Today wasn't most days – and Clint didn't dare push the director an inch farther than he already had.

So he waited and soon enough Fury was ready to start talking. He didn't turn away from the window – didn't acknowledge Clint with anything more than his words.

"I wonder if you remember," Fury shifted his head to look up at the sky outside and sighed, "the day we met."

Clint wasn't prepared for a trip down memory lane. For a moment he stood stock still – just staring at the director's back – wondering if he was actually supposed to respond.

"I knew from day damn one that you were gonna be trouble."

Clint couldn't help the wry quirk that twitched his eyebrow. Trouble had followed him for as long as he could remember. It was no surprise that people around him had perceived that.

"But then Phil got a hold of you, and I thought just maybe…" Fury sighed in what Clint considered a very melodramatic manner, "we'd make a SHIELD agent out of you anyway."

Clint stiffened. He  _was_  a SHIELD agent – the best one this damn organization had ever seen. To have Fury even  _imply_  differently burned hot. His mouth was moving before he could stop it.

"I'm no less a SHIELD agent than you, or Phil, or anybody else in this organization. Because I can damn well guarantee  _nobody_  out there," he gestured at Fury's office door, "has given  _half_  of what I have to this place."

Fury turned then and pinned Clint with a glare so heated that his back stiffened automatically. He wouldn't back down – not even to Fury – he never had.

"Being a SHIELD agent is about more than just giving your blood to the cause. It's about being part of something – about understanding that you're part of a bigger picture. Do you think what you do is more important than the techs that design and build all that fancy equipment you use, just because you shed a little blood?" Fury didn't give him a chance to respond to that hit at his ego before going on. "The decisions you make don't just affect you. They have the potential to send shockwaves through the entire organization. You may be a solo operative, but this is  _not_  a solo operation."

"And what the hell do you do? Every time you tell the Council to shove it up their asses? How is that any different?"

"Because I'm the goddamned  _director_. And I get  _my_ ass reamed for it every time – but lucky for me, they need unanimous vote to kick me to the curb. It's not so with you, Barton."

"Then why'd you stop them?"

"Because  _despite_  what current evidence suggests, you  _are_ a valuable asset to this organization. Even if you don't use your brain half as much as you should."

Clint glared in response to that jab. Fury seemed to read the anger easily and actually smirked.

"Should I present the evidence? Screwing up your last training assignment because some eggheads got under your skin."

 _How the hell did he know about that?_  Clint scowled.

"The whole firing range thing."

"Johnson had it coming." And it really hadn't been  _that_  bad. So what if he'd made a grown man wet his pants.

Fury was unfazed by his defense.

"Getting your ass captured in the Andes to expedite your mission."

In his defense – he  _had_  been shot. Maybe he could have made it to Phil. Maybe not. But they got the bad guys, so he marked it as a win.

"The time you pissed off security just  _because_."

Clint smirked slightly –  _that_  had been a fun day. The entire base had gone into lockdown because he'd had security convinced there was an intruder. To make it even  _more_  epic, Clint had convinced someone in security tech to show him how to reprogram all the door locks. So when the lockdown was lifted, it really wasn't. Was it Clint's fault that no one thought to enter a straight string of zeros? He didn't think so. In the end – being the only one moving freely around base  _had_  been a bit of a neon sign saying 'I did it!'

"Do I even need to mention all the times you've been gone AWOL from the infirmary?"

Clint grimaced. Fury had him there. But the infirmary smelled too clean, and everything was so very  _white_. And every time he was there, it was because he was hurt. He couldn't be blamed for wanting to skip out early.

"Then there was Cairo."

Clint met Fury's eyes abruptly. That was low. That mission had taken more than its fair share of a toll on Phil  _and_  Clint.

"That wasn't my fault." He couldn't help but put out the defense.

"Maybe not." Fury allowed. "But Croatia? Deciding to put yourself in front of a bullet – that most certainly was your fault."

Clint glared darkly.

"If I hadn't done that, Phil would be dead." And he would do it again –  _every_  time. "You know I didn't have a choice."

"I'm not saying it wasn't the right call. I'm saying that sometimes there's more than  _one_  right call. There's always another way, Barton. Maybe you didn't have time to look for one in Croatia, but you sure as hell didn't even bother to look for one here."

Clint shook his head. He was tired of trying to explain himself.

"What was I supposed to do?" he asked quietly.

"I don't know," Fury deadpanned, " _kill_  her?"

Clint clenched his jaw and looked away. He heard Fury sigh.

"And if that wasn't an option, you look for a viable alternative. You don't go so far off script that you write yourself out of the play."

Clint continued to stare down and to his right.

"You could have come to me. Hell, you could have come to Phil."

"Would you have listened?" Clint shot back suddenly, raising his eyes again. "Or would you have just told me to  _do my job_?"

"I don't know, kid." Fury admitted. "But you didn't give me a chance to do either – and  _that's_  on you."

Clint had no defense for that.

"You made a choice. And you had to know if you flirted with the line as much as you do, one day you'd go too far.  _Today_  you went too far."

Clint wasn't going to apologize. Not when he'd make the same choice again. He'd answer for what he'd done – he'd been prepared for it from the moment he'd realized he couldn't kill her.

"You disobeyed direct orders. You went off grid, aided and abetted a Priority Level Threat. You manipulated SHIELD leadership to bring that threat into our midst. By all rights, you should be kicked so hard to the curb that you'd feel the boot in your ass for years to come. Instead, I'm keeping you around. But boy, you cannot get any higher on my shit list than you are right now and you had better start earning your way off of it the moment you walk out of this office."

Clint nodded once.

"What was that?"

"Yes," Clint paused very briefly – just long enough to make Fury's eyes narrow, " _sir._ "

Fury's lips twitched in what might have been amusement.

"Dismissed."

Clint nodded and turned to leave. He was at the door when Fury left him with one final word.

"Barton … if this goes south – it's on you."

Clint nodded again. He'd accepted as much from the moment he made the choice to let Natasha Romanoff live.

* * *

"You're  _kidding,_ right?"

Dan Wilson pinned his doubtful glare first on Phil – and then on Barton.

"He hasn't even  _really_  had treatment and you want me to clear him for duty?"

"Fury's orders."

"I don't care if it's the goddamned president's orders! I'm not putting him in the field injured, no matter how many people he's pissed off!"

"The Uzbekistan assignment is two weeks of strictly watch and report."

"Of a HYDRA compound." Clint put in without looking at them from where he was wandering Dan's office, touching various things Dan really wished he wouldn't.

"The compound is abandoned and has been for years," Phil pointed out sharply, without turning his attention away from Dan. "The most physical activity he'll have is walking the area." Phil spouted off the mission details quickly and efficiently. Dan was certain the man already had the file memorized.

Dan glanced at Barton. The kid was playing with the plastic skeleton Dan had in the corner of his office, making the hand give a rude gesture. He rolled his eyes. Barton may be a finely-tuned killer, but he was such a child sometimes.

"It goes against every protocol I wrote on gunshot wounds."

Phil sighed, glanced at Barton, and then focused back on Dan.

"Fury may have saved his ass but he's still pissed. Clint needs to be scarce for a while. And this assignment is as easy as it gets without actually sending him on vacation."

"That's code for the most boring assignment  _ever_." Clint put in from where he was taping gauze in the shape of a bull's-eye onto the skeleton's forehead. Dan frowned – wondering how Clint had gotten his hands on gauze and tape so quickly.

"Nobody asked you." Phil shot over his shoulder.

Dan arched an eyebrow.

"Fury's not the only one still pissed."

Phil clenched his jaw and closed his eyes briefly.

"Either way, I wouldn't have picked Uzbekistan if I didn't think it was safe for him to carry out in his condition. Fury wants him off base. Make it happen."

Dan sighed and eyed Barton skeptically. The kid had more color than he had last time he'd seen him. He didn't seem to be in any great amount of pain.

"Fine – I'll look him over. But if I see  _anything_ that makes me pause, I'm not clearing him."

Phil waved his hand and what Dan immediately interpreted as an impatient manor.

"Just make it quick. His jet is scheduled to take off in an hour."

Dan waited until Phil had all but stomped out of the infirmary before turning his attention to Barton. The skeleton now had a full skull cap of gauze. Dan waited, but Barton didn't turn or acknowledge him.

"We gonna do this, or what? Apparently we're on the clock."

"I'm not exactly in a hurry to expedite my exile."

Dan arched an eyebrow. Barton hadn't said it in a self-pitying manner – or even with any particular negative emotion. He'd just kind of said it – like a fact.

"Yeah, well you broke the cardinal rule, kid. You don't shit where you live."

 _That_  got his attention. Barton turned, eyebrow arched, and gave Dan a look demanding an explanation.

"You brought the job home, Barton.  _And_  you did it in a way that you knew damn well would piss off everyone here."

Barton's eyes fired up and he stepped closer.

"You have no idea what went down, Wilson. And I've had my fill of lectures today."

"Well, you're gonna get one more. You're up a shit creek kid – and not only did you throw the goddamned paddles out, but you busted a hole in the bottom of the boat." Dan sighed. "You need all the allies you can get right now."

"Is that what you are, Wilson? My  _ally_?"

"If you don't know that yet, Barton, then you're a goddamned idiot." Dan shook his head. "I know I came off harsh with that comment at the Council Chambers – but this whole thing," he shrugged helplessly, "saying no to the Council – saying no to  _Phil_  – this isn't you."

"It's kind of my thing actually – or haven't you been paying attention?"

"Not like this – not over something so serious they could put you on a  _threat_  list." Dan looked away – angry that he'd let some of his worry bleed into his tone. The worry he'd been battling since he'd gotten the call from the hangar deck chief that Barton was being taken into custody. It was too soon on the heels of Croatia – too soon to face the prospect of Barton being put through the ringer again.

And if it was this hard on him, Dan hated to even  _think_  about what Phil was going through.

He looked back at Barton as wasn't surprised to see a familiar assessing, contemplative look in the archer's eyes. Barton had picked up on the worry – was analyzing it now. Finally, the kid sighed deeply.

"I had my reasons."

He was so sincere – so genuine – that Dan couldn't help but nod. Maybe it was because he hadn't been directly involved – maybe it was because this supposed betrayal of SHIELD had nothing to do with him and his relationship with Barton – but he was inclined to just put this whole mess behind them.

Barton probably needed that from at least one person in his life.

"And something tells me they were good ones." He granted the kid a small smile. "Look," Dan sighed, "let me check you over. If you want, I can find a reason to keep them from sending you. With a barely-treated gunshot wound, it shouldn't be hard."

For a moment Barton looked stone-cold frozen – like he was shocked anyone was letting this go. It made Dan even more confident in his chosen path.

"What'll it be?"

Barton swallowed and lifted his chin.

"I made my choice. I'm ready for whatever happens because of it."

Dan nodded in response.

"But…" Barton's eyes found his, " _thank you_."

Dan managed a small smirk.

"You're damned welcome." Then he shook his head. "Besides, I've always loved an underdog."

Clint smirked and moved to sit on the exam table.

"Wilson, when have I  _ever_  been the underdog?"

"Fair point. I'd say your odds of coming out on top are pretty good."

"Always are, Wilson – or haven't you been paying attention?"

Dan laughed.

"Have a seat, kid. I found  _these_ ," he reached behind him and held up an IV bag of blood and another of what Clint knew to be antibiotics, "abandoned in your cell. They do more good _inside_  your body, so they can wait long enough for them to get there."

* * *

Phil watched Clint stow his gear carefully behind his seat in the jet, right hand never wavering in its support of his injured side. Phil frowned as worry swelled for the millionth time in the last twenty four hours. He never thought he'd see the day where he knowingly sent Clint into the field injured.

But Dan had cleared him.

And Uzbekistan posed less than zero threat. Nothing but surveillance – endless hours of surveillance with no real purpose – that was sure to drive Clint crazy with boredom.

But still something in Phil rejected this whole assignment.

But he knew that had to do with more than just sending Clint away. This whole situation had spun so far out of control – and Phil was scrambling to control the fallout.

Sending Clint away while things died down seemed like the best option, so he'd agreed as soon as Fury suggested it. But now Phil wasn't so sure. He was sending Clint away while things were still so screwed up between them. He couldn't quite let go of how Clint had done this – that he'd chosen the path he did. And Clint had dug his heels in so far, Phil didn't have much hope of swaying him from his point of view.

"So…uh, I guess I'll see you in a couple weeks."

Phil shook himself out of his reverie and focused his gaze on Clint who was suddenly standing in front of him. Phil felt a pang when Clint wouldn't meet his eyes.

"Take it easy out there – heal up and just…" Phil sighed and leaned so that he was in Clint's line of vision, forcing their eyes to meet. "Just be careful, okay?"

Clint swallowed and nodded, finally raising his head and eyes to meet Phil's head on.

"I'm sorry."

Phil almost took a step back in shock.

"I'm sorry I that this is how I had to do this, that there wasn't another way."

Phil felt his throat tighten at the sincerity in Clint's eyes. It wasn't an admittance that he was wrong – just an apology that there hadn't been another way. It was something though so Phil nodded in acceptance.

Clint nodded once and turned away, only to turn back almost immediately.

"Are we okay, Phil?"

Phil hesitated and that was all it took for Clint to deduce his own answer. Phil watched it hit hard – watched Clint's eyes display the pain of that hit – and didn't say anything to fix it. Because he and Clint  _weren't_ okay.

But they were on their way back to it.

Clint didn't give him a chance to say that before he turned away and started up the ramp.

"We'll get there, Clint." Phil felt a shot of guilt when Clint only threw a nod over his shoulder – wouldn't face him again. And suddenly Phil felt like  _he_  should be apologizing because he hadn't meant to hurt Clint – to have their parting moment be that harsh.

"Clint…"

He wanted to soften the blow – tell Clint that while they weren't okay, Phil was ready and willing to do whatever it took to get back to that. But Clint just kept walking up the ramp and didn't look back.

He almost started up the ramp, but it started closing. Phil sighed and stepped back out of the way. The last he saw of his agent, Clint was pushing his earbuds into place and leaning his head back against the headrest. Clint's eyes were closed – and already, Phil was longing to know what was going through his agent's head.

Maybe they needed some time apart, to sort through this mess and figure out how to move forward. They'd work it out when Clint got back – once and for all.

He stayed until the jet was out of sight and was hit with such a sense of loss that he had the urge to hit something. Or at least channel the war of emotions he was feeling into something concrete – maybe even something productive.

Struck with an idea, he turned on his heel and stormed out of the hangar, angling towards holding. Natasha Romanoff was the reason all of this had happened – the person that had inspired Clint to anarchy.

It was time to have a conversation.

He waited impatiently as Marcus cleared him through security and moved to her cell door. When it buzzed he didn't hesitate – he just pushed his way in. She was sitting on her cot, but stood as soon as he entered, eyes flashing defensively.

Phil gave her a dry look and closed the door.

"Have a seat." He pointed at her cot.

Defiance stole across her expression and Phil hardened his tone.

"Sit."

Her jaw clenched and she slowly sat and for a moment Phil was painfully reminded of Clint every time he did something he just because he was told but didn't want to admit  _that_  was why he did it.

Phil pinned her with an assessing glare, and tried with everything he had to see what Clint had – to see a reason for all of this.

All he saw was fire. This woman – girl, really – had fire in her. And he was worried that fire was going to do what fire did best – burn.

"You're here because my agent decided to throw away the rule book. He decided to risk everything for you." Phil fought to remain calm. "You, above all people, should know what that involves – and the consequences."

He saw a flash of  _something_  in her eyes, but couldn't identify it before it was gone.

"Clint thought you were worth it. So let's talk about how you're gonna prove that to the rest of us."

* * *

End of Chapter 10

I wonder if Uzbekistan is ringing any bells with anyone? :) We're gonna be focused on Clint for a bit, but Nat gets her own chapter later so if you've been wanting more of her, it's coming.

Here's your preview!

* * *

_"I thought this was only for emergencies."_

_He expected a quick comeback. Because undoubtedly Clint had gained confidence after their conversation and was now bending the rules – a favorite past time of his._

_**"We're gonna have to get to being good a lot faster than you'd planned, Phil."** _

_Phil could tell by the tone of his voice that something had gone very wrong._

_"What happened?"_


	11. Teach Me Wrong From Right

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> Special thanks to Timaios who acted as my German translator :) thanks! :D
> 
> And of course, thanks to Kylen she WAS Dan in this chapter :) And as usual she was a huge help to me!
> 
> And on we march...Chapter 11

  
_I believe that man will not merely endure. He will prevail. He is immortal, not because he alone among creatures has an inexhaustible voice, but because he has a soul, a spirit capable of compassion and sacrifice and endurance.  
_ _**William Faulkner** _   


* * *

_**One week later...** _

* * *

_Phil's placed the pen back on the sign in page and, for a moment, just stared at his name._

_Hs signature looked foreign to him – as if he weren't the one who had just put it to the paper._

" _This way, sir."_

_Phil looked up at the man standing near the metal double doors and stared dumbly – his mind taking longer than normal to process that the man was speaking English instead of the expected Egyptian Arabic. Finally he moved to follow the man through the doors._

_It wasn't just his signature – every step felt foreign, like it didn't belong to him. This whole process felt like it was happening to someone else entirely._

_Phil looked up when the guide came to a stop._

_The white sheet stretched out across the metal table nearly took the strength out of his legs._

_This was why he was in Cairo – that sheet, covering a body on a table._

_Clint._

_It wasn't supposed to end like this – Clint was just a kid, only 19. He had too much life left to live for it all to be cut short so abruptly._

_It was so wrong._

" _Would you like a moment to prepare yourself?"_

_Phil felt a hysterical laugh bubble in his throat. The man could give him all the time in the world and Phil would never be ready for this – or for what was under that sheet._

_They hadn't gotten enough time. It had only been just under a year and a half since he'd found Clint in that alley in Vienna. They were finally past all the trust issues – all the self-imposed isolation – that had been Clint's M.O. when he came to SHIELD. Just five months ago, Clint had opened up about part of his painful childhood. He'd let Phil into a part of his life he'd previously kept heavily guarded. And he talked now – not when anyone else was around – but when it was just the two of them, Clint talked like the teenager he was, mostly about his favorite books. The teen's love of the written word had been a fascinating discovery in and of its own right._

_And now all of that was over and Phil wasn't prepared for the gaping void he felt at the loss._

_He nodded at the attendant and the man reached for the edge of the sheet._

_Phil tried to prepare himself, but found that all he could do was force himself to breathe._

_And then the sheet was pulled back and all the oxygen seemed to vanish from the room._

_The face was badly burned – a product of the car bomb that had killed him – but it was unmistakably Clint._

_Phil couldn't breathe. He clenched his eyes closed to hold back the sudden well of tears that threatened to break through._

_How did someone as amazing as Clint Barton get dealt such a shitty hand? How could so many terrible things happen to someone like him?_

_Phil forced himself to open his eyes again, to look at his agent one last time._

" _Are you all right?"_

_Phil looked at the attendant, frowning as he failed to interpret what the man was saying. He heard the words – but they didn't register, didn't make sense. Phil looked around – but nothing seemed familiar._

_Where was he again? Why was he here?_

_He looked down at the table in front of him but it was empty, the white sheet lying neatly folded._

_Clint. Where was Clint? Was he here, too? He needed to find him. Clint was in trouble. That's why he was here._

_He had to find Clint before it was too late._

* * *

Phil woke with a gasp, sitting straight up in bed and looking quickly around the room. Everything seemed normal – nothing out of place.

Immediately he reached for his phone on his bedside table. He just needed to check in. He needed hear the kid's voice to wipe away the remnants of that ugly nightmare – that horrifying twist on history.

He paused and glanced at the clock.

3:20 in the morning.

Clint had checked in with the mission control center just seven hours ago – the first of his two daily check-ins. Of course, since Clint was a full ten hours ahead of them, his  _morning_ check-in was evening for them in New York.

Phil hadn't talked to him then – hadn't actually  _talked_ to him since he'd left a week ago.

That thought had Phil dialing his phone and putting it to his ear. It rang three times before he answered.

" _I'm not supposed to use this phone unless it's an emergency."_

Phil couldn't help but smile at the familiar sarcasm that was laid heavily in Clint's tone. The smile quickly faded when the reality of their situation and the memory of the dream settled in.

"Just wanted to see how things are going – make sure you're taking care of yourself."

There was a long moment of silence and the bitterness that clouded Clint's words when he spoke made Phil wince.

" _You sound worried, Phil."_ There was a beat of silence.  _"I figured that was against protocol by now."_

Phil sighed and rubbed his eyes with his free hand.

"When are you gonna realize, kid, that it'd take a helluva lot more than this shit that went down for me to stop worrying about you."

Clint was silent for another moment.

" _I'm fine."_

That clipped answer was so reminiscent of when they'd first met that it was physically painful to hear. He was supposed to be the one still upset with Clint, not the other way around. If anyone should have clipped, short answers it should be him.

But Clint was also hurt – and not just physically. Phil hadn't backed him wholeheartedly, hadn't trusted that Clint's decisions were sound and true. Phil was the one that said they weren't okay. Even now, Phil still couldn't bring himself to accept what Clint had done as the right choice. And he knew that hurt Clint more than a gunshot ever could.

And Clint's response to hurt had always been the same – he channeled it into anger. But Phil knew how to deal with an angry Clint – had become an expert.

"How's your side?"

" _Fine."_

"And the surveillance?"

" _What the hell do you think? It's boring as hell –_ _ **just**_ _like it's supposed to be."_

Phil smiled – that sounded more like his Clint.

"What's on the docket today?"

" _I'm headed back to the main compound for round_ _ **three**_ _of watching dust settle."_ Clint sighed in what sounded like mild annoyance.  _"Why did you call, Phil?"_ He sounded confused now.

Phil sighed. He didn't know how Clint would react to the truth – "I had a nightmare about Cairo and just needed to hear your voice" just didn't seem to fit the current tone of their relationship. He settled for a vaguer version.

"I just wanted to make sure you were doing okay. We haven't talked since you left."

" _Whose choice was that, Phil? I'm restricted to mission-relevant communication_ _ **only**_ _and something tells me that stepping out of line at all right now wouldn't exactly do me any favors."_

Phil rubbed a hand across his face. He'd made a conscious – and very difficult – decision to limit his communication with Clint. They both needed time to get their heads on straight. He was realizing now that while it may have been calming for him, it had only hurt Clint more.

"I figured we could both use some time."

" _No,_ _ **you**_ _figured_ _ **you**_ _could use some time. Meanwhile I'm left out here – completely cut off with nothing to do but think about how much everybody thinks I screwed up – and the one person I thought would actually put aside all this shit and throw me a line decided he needed_ _ **time.**_ _"_

Phil didn't miss that Clint had said how much everybody thought he screwed up. Clint was holding his position – still believed he made the right call. Somehow Phil wasn't surprised.

" _Look, I've got work to do. Take all the time you need before calling again."_

Phil couldn't let the conversation end like that – with Clint still sounding hurt and angry all at once. Not with Clint thinking he hadn't called because he hadn't  _wanted_ to. It had gone against his very nature to force himself not to call.

"Clint, just wait a second." When the line didn't immediately go dead, Phil continued. "I should have called sooner. I'm sorry."

Clint sighed over the line.

" _I know I deserve this – I made a choice that pissed everyone off and now I'm paying for it. I just didn't think you'd call in your pound of flesh, too."_

"I'm not trying to punish you, Clint." He wasn't.  _Was he?_

" _Then you need to choose better tactics."_

Clint was blunt when he wanted to be. And he was good at calling a spade a spade.

"Yeah, I'm getting that."

There was a long moment of silence and when Clint spoke again he just sounded tired.

" _We ever gonna get back to where we were?"_

"Of course we are."

" _Just not yet, right?"_ The hint of bitterness was back again.

"What do you want me to do, Clint – just pretend nothing happened?"

" _No."_ Clint sighed deeply.  _"I just want you to believe that I_ _ **might**_ _have made the right call – that just_ _ **maybe**_ _I did this in the only way that would have worked...I want you to believe that without me having to prove it."_

Phil felt like the breath had been knocked out of him.

"Clint...I..."

" _Forget it, Phil."_

"Maybe you're right." Phil stated sharply before Clint had a chance to hang up, which Phil was certain was about to happen. "But you gotta understand that if you're wrong,then we're talking about fallout that will affect the entire organization. And all of this – the way you did this – was for nothing."

" _God, Phil – that can go both ways. If I'm_ _ **right,**_ _then she's the most valuable asset we've ever brought in."_

Phil was pretty sure Clint would give Romanoff a run for her money if it came to that, but that wasn't the point.

" _For once, this isn't about the big picture, Phil. It's about the details. It's about the nineteen-year-old girl who needs the_ _ **same**_ _chance you gave me. It's about me doing what I had to do to give her that chance – no matter who it pissed off."_

Phil opened his mouth to reply but wasn't sure what to say.

" _Dammit, Phil! What if it had been me in her place? Wouldn't you hope that whoever was holding the gun would just_ _ **wait**_ _– wouldn't just do what they were told? Because it could have been me, Phil. Not so long ago – it_ _ **was**_ _me."_

Now the answer was easy.

"I would hope that they had your guts, kid. Not many would have the nerve to do what you did. And..." He sighed, "I would hope they would do whatever it took to protect you – no matter who it pissed off."  _Like I've always done._

Phil swallowed. He could see it now – actually see – where Clint was coming from. The kid never did things halfway; he went all in every time when he thought it was worth the effort. Just like Phil had done three years ago in an alleyway in Vienna. With people like Clint – and apparently Romanoff – you had to go all in just to prove to them that what you were offering was real.

No wonder Clint was so pissed off. This wasn't just about Natasha Romanoff. This was also about Clint and his own shot at redemption – the one Phil had given him and made real and whole with the full backing of SHIELD. And it was about Clint now facing the reality it might all be yanked from him. Because he did what he thought he needed to – not what he was _told_  to do. Suddenly, Phil felt a jolt of guilt, wishing he'd come to this revelation earlier. It'd been sitting right in front of him. He just hadn't seen it.

On the other end of the phone, Clint drew his attention back.

" _Phil_?" There was a hint of impatience in his tone.

Dammit. He'd let his thoughts wander – and he still had a point to make.

"Clint, she's not you." He heard Barton draw in a breath to argue and plowed forward. "No, listen. She's not you. Maybe she will be in time, but right now, she's not. And I care a hell of a lot more about you than her second chance."

Phil swallowed hard, then added carefully, "I still wish you'd found another way."

" _I don't. Even with everything that's happened…"_  the unspoken 'between us' was loud and clear. " _I would do it again."_

Phil had no doubt about that. And what the hell? Maybe Clint even had a point. But he couldn't let go of the idea that bringing in an assassin – one with possibly a more deadly skill set than even Clint owned – had been wrong, that doing it the way Clint had was even worse.

"I know. But I can't just roll over and tell you that you did the right thing. Not yet."

" _Then I guess maybe we should be done talking for now."_  He heard Clint sigh.  _"I need to go."_

"Clint, I'm trying, okay?" God, was he trying. "I'm not telling you that you were wrong. That's progress."

" _I know, Phil."_ A sound that suspiciously resembled a sniffle echoed over the line, and Phil knew he'd gotten through.  _"Don't wait a week next time, okay? I'm going crazy here."_

"You got it, kid. Be careful out there."

" _Yeah … I'll watch out for the dust bunnies."_

Phil laughed as the line went dead. He wasn't sure how, but he actually felt better now – even though that conversation had gone mostly terrible. Clint had put things in a hell of a new perspective. And if he was this steadfast in his decision, there was something to it.

He tossed his phone back on the bedside table and stretched back out on his bed. He could probably get a few more hours sleep if he tried. Clint would be back on base in a week and they'd work their way past this once and for all.

* * *

_You've been….thunderstruck…thunderstruck…yeah, yeah, yeah, thunderstruck!_

Phil reached for his phone unerringly before he even opened his eyes. Distantly the personalized ringtone permeated his consciousness and he realized it was Clint calling. When Clint had set the ringtone originally, it had been without Phil's knowledge. And the first time the intense guitar notes and screeching voices of AC/DC had blasted from his phone, Phil had been less than amused.

He hadn't been able to bring himself to change it yet, though.

"I thought this was only for emergencies."

He expected a quick comeback. Undoubtedly, Clint had gained confidence after their conversation and was now bending the rules – a favorite past time of his.

" _We're gonna have to get to being good a lot faster than you'd planned, Phil."_

Phil could tell by the tone of his voice that something had gone very wrong.

"What happened?" He was already out of bed – pulling on the first pair of pants he found and yanking on his shoes without socks.

" _It turns out I had more to watch out for more than dust bunnies."_

Phil ran for his door in nothing but a t-shirt, sweat pants, and an old pairs of running shoes. A chill ran straight through his core as the meaning of Clint's words sunk in. The sudden sound of gunfire over the line had his heart rate sky rocketing and his feet sprinting through the halls.

"Sit rep, Clint."

" _Uh...the dust bunnies have guns, I'm out of arrows and my gun only has six rounds left."_

There was more gunfire followed by a curse.

" _Shit. Make that four rounds."_

"Tell me what happened, kid, nice and easy."

Phil slammed shoulder first into a man carrying a stack of papers as he rounded a corner. He didn't spare any more time than to give the man an apologetic wave.

" _I was watching the compound and I saw something weird inside the gate. The grass had changed – like a bunch of people had walked through it. So I went to check it out–"_ Clint paused and Phil heard him fire three quick shots.  _"Must have tripped an alarm or something because they were on me in less than a minute. I made it to one of the warehouses, but they've got me pinned."_

Phil rounded another corner and then took a left into Fury's residence hall.

"Find an exit."

Clint blew out a huffing laugh.

" _Don't think you get it Phil – I don't have an exit."_ Clint paused and Phil skidded to a stop in front of Fury's door.  _"I'm gonna get snatched."_

"Clint, I need you to try to avoid that." Phil pounded on Fury's door.

Clint chuckled.

" _Hate to disappoint – shit!"_

There was another eruption of gunfire and then a clatter as the phone hit the concrete. There were sudden shouts in German and he heard Clint shout something back in the same language then the line went abruptly dead.

"Clint?!"

_SHIT._

Phil reached out to pound on Fury's door again – and almost fell as it swung open.

"You know, when I tell you people to leave me the hell alo –" Fury's tirade, clearly mean for some minion who had the temerity to bug him at 3:30 in the morning, trailed off. He quickly looked Coulson up and down.

"Phil, what the hell –" Fury trailed off as his brain caught up with the moment, and dropped his head into his hand. "Aw, SHIT. Just what the hell has Barton done THIS time?"

"Clint's been captured."

The news rocked Fury back on his heels, literally.

"By who?" Phil caught the disbelief in the director's voice, even as Fury started pulling on clothes. "I couldn't have picked a better shit assignment myself, Phil. The damned compound's been deserted for six and a half years!"

"I don't know, and apparently, it's no longer deserted." Phil snapped the words out as they made their way through the halls toward the command center. "Sir, I need to go find him."

Fury pulled to a stop.

"We have tac teams for that kind of thing. And by the time you make the flight, Phil, they'll already have him back."

"I put him there." Phil knew the guilt in his voice was clear – and didn't care. "He was there to gather intel – he could have information of unmatched importance..."

Fury held up a hand to stop him.

"And it's Barton, and you feel responsible."

Phil didn't try to deny it.

"I need to be there."

Fury sighed.

"This isn't your fault, Phil. It was supposed to be a shit assignment – hell, it WAS a shit assignment."

"Not helping, sir."

"Go, bring our boy home." Phil was already moving away, and the director raised his voice to a shout. "I'll have a tac team from the Afghanistan base mobilized in 90 minutes."

Phil threw an acknowledging wave over his shoulder and sprinted towards the infirmary. The tac team would have a field medic, and Phil knew damned well whatever he got would likely be hours late and a dollar short. But he wanted – he  _needed_  – to do something, and getting a pack from medical just made sense.

Besides, Dan was on duty tonight, presiding over the infirmary because Bryan was running a night exercise with new recruits – one that included Romanoff. He stopped when he remembered that. Tracking down Bryan for a report on Romanoff should have been the biggest priority he had this morning.

Just how the hell had this gone to hell so damned fast? And why did it keep happening to him and Clint?

Phil burst into the infirmary more loudly that was strictly necessary, but he couldn't bring himself to care. The doors slammed into the wall so hard they almost ricocheted back into his face as he flew through.

Someone sitting at the front desk sat up abruptly, then toppled to the floor when the wheeled chair skittered backward. A second later, Dan glared at him from the floor.

"Jesus, Phil! Trying to wake the dead?"

Phil angled towards the voice and beelined it for Dan.

"I need a medical kit."

Dan just stared at him for a moment and then horror dawned in his eyes.

"Jesus Christ … it's Barton, isn't it? How bad?"

"I don't know. He got taken by hostiles less than five minutes ago."

"And you're going after him." It wasn't a question. Phil just nodded.

The next question, though, pitched low, bottomed out Phil's stomach.

"Is he still alive?"

After everything they'd been though in the last six months – hell, in the last ten days – the idea that his agent was lying dead in some hellhole on what should've been a shit surveillance assignment drove Phil to the edge of his sanity.

"He better be." Phil's words came out harsh, the weight of more than a little anger – and guilt – behind them.

Dan looked at him for a moment, then glanced at the clock.

"Sit. Even better, your spare change of clothes is in the lockers. Change. I'll be back in 10 minutes with your shit."

Phil looked at his watch. As much as it would kill him to do it – to spend even one moment not heading for Clint – he nodded. Dan wouldn't have asked if he didn't have a damned good reason.

The doctor was already moving toward the supply room. Phil looked down at his torn sweats, and shook his head. He needed to get changed and get his gear together. The gear he could grab on his way to the hangar. The change of clothes he could do here. He veered toward the lockers.

When Dan came back through the door, Phil had on black cargos and a t-shirt, and a pair of socks – he'd kept the sneakers. He pointed at the clock.

"Eight minutes, 22 seconds."

"You would time me."

Phil wanted to laugh at the expected grumble. But instead, his breath hitched in his throat as he saw what Dan had in his hands – a pair of neon-orange backpacks, ones Phil knew held the base's medic kits.

"I'm hoping like hell you won't need any of this, but I planned for the worst. I combined one of the EMT basic bags with one of the IV tech bags." Dan lifted that pack up a few inches, then set it gently down on the floor. "There's not much in there in terms of fluids – only so much room – but I'm going to hope you can find a hospital if you need to."

Phil nodded.

"And the other?"

Dan hesitated, and let out a loud sigh.

"Stuff you shouldn't have. It's one of the advanced life support bags – full paramedic kit. AED, full stock of drugs, and oxygen."

Phil frowned, and Wilson followed his train of thought easily.

"Yeah, I know. You're not trained on the drugs. And I know damned well you won't be the first on the scene and a field medic will probably have most of this, but I subscribe to the Boy Scout motto – especially when it comes to you and Barton." Wilson dropped the other bag on the floor. "PLEASE tell me there's a tac team somewhere closer than you and whoever you're dragging out there with you."

Phil nodded, reaching down to pick up the bags. Each had to be at least 20 pounds.

"Fury's mobilizing a team. Afghanistan, I think he said." But then the other part of Dan's comment sunk in. "But I can't just sit here and wait for them to –"

"Hold up. I'm not suggesting you should. I'd like to live another day, thanks." Wilson rolled his eyes, but when he spoke, he was dead serious. "Stop for a second and think. You need someone with you, if only as a co-pilot. Who?"

Phil found himself pulled up short. How the hell had Dan worked that out before he did?

Dan reached out and took the bags from him. Phil started to protest, but Dan cut him off.

"I'll take these out to the hangar. Bryan's out in field three. He'd move heaven and Earth for Barton, and I know he's a damned better shot than I am." Wilson sighed. "You want me with you, I'm there, but he'd be a better choice."

Phil nodded, then shook his head.

"No, you're better off here. Like you said, there'll be a field medic on site before I even get there." He gestured toward the bags. "Those are just precautionary."

Dan waved a hand at the door.

"Then go."

* * *

It took Phil another two minutes to get down to the training field. In the darkness, he could barely make out faces, but Bryan's voice came in loud and clear from the front of a pack.

"Just what the fuck do you think you're doing, Adams? Get your ass front and center." A dark-haired man stepped out, making sure he stood ramrod straight. The rest of the trainees – as Phil got closer, he saw a red swirl of hair that had to be Romanoff – backed off slightly, not wanting to get caught up in the tirade, but still shamelessly watched as Bryan opened his mouth and started spewing colorful adjectives.

"Agent Bryan!" To Todd's credit – and Phil's eternal gratitude – he picked up immediately on the tone in Phil's voice. The trainer's expression morphed from the hard-ass, take-no-shit expression he wore with his trainees into its own version of worry.

"Fall back in, Adams. And the rest of you, close your ears while your superiors talk over your heads." Bryan jogged over, giving them some space from the trainees, then lowered his voice so the trainees wouldn't be able to hear.

"What the hell, Phil? You look like shit, no offense."

Phil shook his head.

"Clint's in a situation. If you're willing, I'm taking off in 10 minutes."

Todd looked him up and down, taking in his appearance and expression. Then he turned to the recruits.

"Get your asses back to your quarters." Phil winced at the volume. "This session is over. Security WILL make sure you all end up back in your beds, so do NOT test me."

Immediately, the recruits dispersed and Todd turned back to Phil.

"What's going on?" Todd started walking back the way Phil had come, no doubt having already made up his mind to come.

"Clint got taken by unknown hostile about fifteen minutes ago. Fury is scrambling a team from the Afghanistan base – hopefully by the time we land, they'll have him back." He didn't want to think about the alternatives. "We're probably going to get there and be useless, but …" Phil let the sentence trail off.

"I'll meet you at the hangar." Todd started moving toward the residence halls, and after a second, Phil followed him. He still needed his gear.

_We're coming, Clint._

* * *

Fury and Dan were both waiting in the hangar when Phil arrived. Todd was already in the jet, stowing his gear.

"I contacted the Afghan Base Director. Most of his field personnel are in the middle of a major operation, but he's pulling together a team and he'll have them in the air in under an hour."

Phil nodded his thanks to the director. Dan then held up the two bags.

"I know you probably won't need this. But if you do, you WILL call me, and I will walk you through any of it." Dan snorted. "Of course, now that we've planned for it, Barton will probably be sitting there waiting for you when you land, wondering why all the fuss."

Phil couldn't bring himself to count on that scenario quite yet, not while everything about this situation was so up in the air.

"Now get your ass in that jet and bring him home." Fury directed firmly.

Phil nodded again and jogged up the ramp. Todd was already sitting in the pilot seat powering the engines up.

"Let's go." Phil dropped into the copilot seat and strapped in.

Less than five minutes later they were airborne.

Then the hardest part began – waiting. They had a twelve-hour flight ahead of them where all Phil could do was wait and hope for a call from Afghanistan saying they had Clint back. He glanced over at Todd, preparing to thank the man for dropping everything to come along.

He was surprised to see anguished conflict playing out on the man's face.

"Todd?"

It was different than when he tried to pry information out of Clint – who would swear up and down that nothing was wrong until he was ready to talk about it on his terms. Todd, on the other hand, decided to confess right away.

"I wouldn't look at him. I was so disappointed over what he'd done that I wouldn't even look at him. And I knew full well how goddamned perceptive the kid is. I knew that would sting and I did it anyway. I figured I'd let him stew on it for a while."

"We all thought he needed to be taught a lesson." Phil sighed. "You're not the only one that's kicking himself right now. I think Dan is the only one that let him off the hook."

Todd shook his head.

"I never even listened to his side."

"Yeah, well, I  _did._ " Phil clenched his jaw and felt his chest tighten. "And I still didn't give him the benefit of the doubt."

And he hated himself more for it by the moment.

"Then we can both apologize when we get the damn kid back." Todd decided.

Phil nodded. He intended to – right after he told the kid he forgave him fully for this whole shit storm.

* * *

"Sorry to disappoint – shit!" Clint scrambled out of the line of fire of the six men that suddenly rounded the corner. His phone went tumbling to the ground as he threw himself to the left.

Six men – one bullet. And who knew how many more men waiting for him.

One bullet was better than none. He pushed to his knees and fired once, dropping the lead man instantly. Then he dropped down behind his cover and waited. Either they'd kill him or they'd try to capture him.

"Du bist umstellt, ergib dich!" _(We have you surrounded! Give up!)_

Clint licked his lips, translating the German quickly in his head.

"Ich bin unbewaffnet!"  _(I'm unarmed!)_  He shouted back.

"Hände hoch! Auf die Knie!"  _(Hands up! On your knees!)_

It went against every instinct he had. He wanted to just kill all of these guys. He could – with only a little difficulty. Then he could take one of their guns and try to fight his way out. He almost did it, but then more shouts rang across the warehouse and he knew he was too outnumbered.

But he had never – and would never – go quietly.

He raised his hands just as they rounded the edge of his cover, his phone crunching under their boots.

"Auf die Knie!"  _(On your knees!)_

Clint shifted to as if to obey and then sprang up. The first man's neck was broken a second later and Clint was already on the next one. That man was dropping even as Clint slammed his fist into the third's throat. As he choked his way to the ground, Clint used him as a platform to launch himself at the final man. He locked his legs around the man's neck and then twisted towards the ground, planting his hands and snapping the man's neck as he pulled him over his body and slammed him to the ground.

Clint stood and was met with rifle butt to the forehead.

He dropped to his knees just as he mused vaguely that they were quick little bastards. A moment later, a dirty gag flew over his head from behind and was pulled in between his teeth. It was secured too tightly and then a boot slammed into his spine, sending him to his stomach.

His hands were pulled roughly behind his back and secured with a rough rope. Then a black cloth bag slid over his head, secured with what sounded like duct tape around his neck.

Effectively blinded and gagged, Clint could only rely on his hearing to keep track of what was going on. He heard a whistle of something passing through the air a moment before a boot slammed into his unprotected side, flipping him through the air and onto his back.

His quiver dug into his back and his left shoulder ached at the stress the joint was under. Something slid between his chest and the strap of his quiver and then a moment later the leather broke and the quiver was yanked out from under him.

Hands roughly searched him and stripped away his weapons, then he was jerked onto his stomach and searched again. Then they took his boots and his jacket was cut away. The next thing to go was his Kevlar. He had a sudden wish to tell Phil that he'd worn the Kevlar – even though it was just supposed to be surveillance.

Left in only his cargo pants and his t-shirt, Clint was forced to just lay there and wait - unable to see whatever they planned on sending his way. He grimaced as blood dripped down his temples and into his eyes from the gash the first hit had opened on his forehead. The only reason he wasn't out cold was because according to Phil – and Wilson and Bryan – he had an unreasonably hard head. But just because he was conscious, didn't mean he had it all quite together.

He heard them talking quickly to each other in German, but his concussed brain couldn't quite keep up. Suddenly hands were gripping his shoulders and pulling him upright. They kept pulling until he was on his feet. Clint cocked his head slightly – straining his ears to hear the faintest warning of what was coming.

All he heard was a faint shift in the air and then a blunt force slammed into his temple and sent his vision swimming.

The next words spoken were in English and hissed lowly in his ear.

"Not so tough."

Clint smirked as best he could around the gag and jerked his head towards he voice. His own head throbbed, but the satisfying sound of a nose breaking made it worth the pain. It even made the fist that slammed into his ribs worth it. But the stock of a rifle that hit the back of his head a moment later – that he could have done without.

His knees seemed to come to the decision that they had forgotten how to support him and he would have dropped if not for the bruising hands on his biceps.

"Dafür wirst du bezahlen."  _(You'll pay for that.)_

Clint wished they could see the smirk he was sporting – or at least attempting to sport around the gag. If Phil were here, he'd be reading him the riot act for goading them in any way shape or form. But Clint couldn't help it. He needed whatever measure of control he could gain.

He closed his eyes, gauging where the man was by his instincts and the sound of his breathing.

Then he forced his feet under him and struck out. His boot hit something soft and the man shouted in pain, dropping heavily to the floor – groaning the whole way down.

Clint didn't even need to see to know the next hit was coming. It hit the same spot on his temple the last one had. Clint had one last vague thought about his hard head, then it was lights out.

* * *

End of Chapter 11

Yeah, with Clint it's NEVER the easy way lol...and a simple mission is never simple.

No Natasha this chapter, like I said yesterday, we're focusing on Clint for a bit. But rest assured, we're gonna come back to her in full force.

Here's your preview!

* * *

_He clenched his teeth so hard on the gag that they ground together through the fabric – but he didn't let a sound past his throat. He wasn't going to give the bastards the satisfaction._

**_I can take it._ **


	12. I'll Show You What I Can Be

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> Now as usual thanks to Kylen again - she IS Dan in this chapter and she collaborated heavily with me in figuring out what happens to Barton in this chapter.
> 
> And on we go to Chapter 12

  
_Its usually the ones who are willing to do anything or everything for others that end up getting hurt.  
_ _**Sushan R. Sharma** _   


* * *

Ice-cold water to the face was officially going under Clint's label of "Worst Ways to Get Woken Up".

Conveniently for his captors, the bag over his head did very, very little to protect him from the icy liquid. Immediately, the bag adhered to his face like a second skin, making it extremely hard to breathe. It was then that he realized the t-shirt he'd been wearing was gone and the water felt like a million needles plunging into his chest. It took every ounce of self-control Clint had to resist the shiver that wanted to take over his body.

He would  _not_  show weakness to these guys – not in any form.

So the only reaction he gave them was a sharp intake of breath. He really hadn't been able to hold that back when the freezing spray – because he was 99 percent certain it was a hose they were using – had hit him. After that, he just stayed absolutely still and focused on two things – breathing around the gag still caught between his teeth and figuring out what the hell was going on.

He was restrained – to what felt like a metal chair – by rough ropes that were already rubbing the skin of his wrists raw. His ankles were similarly bound and somewhere along the way they'd apparently taken his socks, because his bare feet were resting on infuriatingly cold concrete.

He cocked his head slightly – listening to what was going on in the room. And he absolutely refused to let himself focus on the fact that he couldn't see a damn thing. He threw all of his concentration into his hearing instead – knowing that he could get at least a semi-clear picture of the room if he just  _focused_.

He could hear the hose – running somewhere to his left. And the sound of three – no four – people breathing. Several pairs of boots shuffled around on the concrete and then there were quiet whispers he couldn't quite make out.

Then electricity crackled.

_Oh shit…_

He forced his breathing to remain steady, but there was nothing he could do about his heart. Unfortunately, with it pounding like it was in his ears, his one defense – his hearing – was shot.

He nearly had a heart attack when a rough fabric was suddenly scrubbed across his chest. He hadn't even known anybody was that close to him. He clenched his teeth around the gag in his mouth and internally channeled Phil – and told himself to calm the hell down.

But it was surprisingly hard to calm down when he couldn't see anything – or hear anything but his own heart, when his nerves were fraying drastically by the moment.

Electricity crackled again and he barely stopped himself from flinching.

He'd been tortured before – in many ways, shapes, and forms – but it had never been like this. He'd always been able to see what was coming, to know when to brace himself. Now even that defense was stripped away.

He sensed someone draw near to him and angled his head slightly in that direction.

There was no warning – just sudden fire directly on the week-old bullet wound on his side.

And Clint was absurdly grateful for the gag between his teeth – because it was the only thing that stopped him from screaming.

* * *

Phil stared out into the slowly-brightening sky – trying, and failing, to stop himself from imagining the worst possible scenarios. It wasn't until Todd tapped him on the arm that he realized his phone was ringing. He glanced down at where it was clenched in his hand – seeing the single label "Fury" lighting the screen.

Relief washed through him.

It had been just over two hours since their take off – more than enough time for the tac team to make the trip from Afghanistan, retrieve Clint, and get him to safety. He would finally be able to put his extremely vivid imagination to rest.

Unless this call was to tell him that all they'd recovered was a body.

But Phil couldn't bring himself to even entertain that possibility. Clint was alive. After Cairo, he was absolutely certain he'd know if the archer wasn't.

Phil slid his finger across the phone and put it to his ear.

"Coulson."

" _The team never made it to the compound."_

Phil felt the air suck out of the space around him. He barely had the breath to whisper a response.

"What?"

He felt Todd's eyes turn to him – suddenly intense – rightly sensing that something was wrong.

" _They went down two klicks out."_ Fury paused and sighed.  _"There were no survivors."_

Phil felt his jaw go slightly slack.

"But…" He didn't know what to say. Clint wasn't rescued – wasn't safe, had been captive now for more than two and a half hours.

" _Phil, they were_ _ **shot**_ _down. The bastards knew we'd be coming for him and they were ready."_

Phil pressed the fingers of his free hand against his eyes.

"How long until they get another team in the air?"

" _Phil…"_  Fury took a breath,  _"they won't be sending another team."_

"But Clint is still in there."

" _They can't risk another team for one agent – hell, the Afghan base doesn't have another team to risk."_

"Then scramble a team from another base! What about Vienna?"

" _The Council caught wind of what happened – they've put a hold on all rescue attempts. It's protocol – you know it as well as I do. I tried calling in favors, but no one's going to directly defy an order from those bastards."_

No one had ever defied the Council. Until Clint had done it, and now Phil. He hated the council with ever fiber of his being in that moment. Hated them for knowingly abandoning Clint to an unknown hell – a hell that Phil's imagination was all too easily conjuring up as some sort of horrifying torture.

" _Technically, I_ _ **should**_ _be telling you to land your ass at the closest base but…"_

Phil jumped in immediately.

"I'm going in the minute my boots touch down."

" _I had a feeling you'd say that – and I'll buy you whatever time I can. I'm sorry I can't do more. If I'd known it was going to go down like this, I'd be there with you. I've got Wilson with me right now promising the same."_

"Thank you, sir."

" _Cut out this_ _ **'sir'**_ _bullshit and bring our boy home. Do whatever you have to – I'll cover your ass from here the best I can."_

Phil nodded, scrubbing his hand through his hair. There really wasn't anything to say – Clint was going to have to survive at least another 10 or 11 hours – probably more – before they'd be able to get to him.

There was a rustling on the line and then Dan's voice came over the phone.

" _Dammit, Phil, I'm sorry. I've been kicking myself since you left that I didn't just come with you."_

Phil shook his head blankly. Dan wasn't supposed to  _need_  to be there. His response was numb as the shock settled deeper.

"He was supposed to be safe when I got there." Phil swallowed hard, thinking about the assignment. "He was supposed to be  _safe_."

He wasn't sure if he meant it as absolution for Dan staying behind – to ease the doctor's mind – or if he still just couldn't accept that everything had gone worse than they'd ever imagined.

" _Yeah, well, he's not."_  Dan's response was so immediate Phil actually shot up in his seat.

"Dan, what the –"

" _Phil, shut the hell up and listen a minute."_ Dan could get down and dirty with the best of them, and he'd certainly gotten Phil's attention.  _"I can hear the guilt in your voice, and I know no one saw this coming. Get over it."_

"It was supposed to be a shit assignment!" Phil practically snarled it back at Dan. "And I let him go out there thinking…" Phil couldn't put into words – didn't want to remember the pain he'd caused Clint because he  _couldn't let it go_. "Dammit, Dan, I let him down."

" _Oh, bullshit!"_ Phil could practically hear the eye roll as Dan snapped back. _"Didn't you two learn anything after Croatia? You taught that damned kid everything damned thing you know, and he's put it together with everything damned thing_ _ **he**_ _knows – and that's made him about as stoppable as a fucking freight train. And more important than any of that, Phil, you taught him to know his own damned mind and to_ _ **use**_ _it. And it got him in deep shit this time. Deal with it. It's all you can do."_

Phil closed his eyes, processing everything – from Dan's words to what Clint had told him three short hours ago on the phone – and realized, not for the first time, just how damned perceptive Wilson could be when he put his mind to it.

"Okay." He ran his fingers through his hair. "Okay. I can do that."

" _You're too damned old for me to be giving pep talks, you know. Now, fly the hell out of that jet and get there_ – _and don't get your ass shot down. Now...remember what I said about those bags and what's in there?"_

"Yes." Involuntarily, Phil shivered. What Dan had sent with him implied a hell of a lot could have gone wrong.

" _Remember what I've taught you, and call me when you get to him."_

Dan paused and Phil heard something that sounded suspiciously like a catch in his breath, then added,  _"Call me when you find him."_ He blew out a shaky breath and when he spoke again his voice was low and husky – betraying all the fear that Phil himself was feeling too.  _"Please."_

It hit Phil hard over the head then. He wasn't alone. He wasn't the only one terrified out of his mind right now. Dan was right there, too – and so was Fury. And if the white-knuckled grip Todd had on the flight controls was anything to go by, he was, too.

Suddenly something Dan said sunk into Phil's consciousness.

 _When_  you find him.

Dan's tone held absolute belief that Phil would succeed, that he would get to Clint. Phil latched onto that confidence and channeled it. Clint was a fighter – had been since he was six years old – and he would fight until Phil got to him. Clint would always fight.

"I will." He issued the promise to Dan firmly – with more confidence than he expected.

Dan cleared his throat and lowered his voice.

" _I put a call into Lukas, to see if he could maneuver anything from his end. They're locked down tighter than a damned drum – to keep anyone from getting any delusions of grandeur about a rescue attempt. The base director isn't even letting anyone go home for the night. Seems your boy made quite the impression."_

There was a sudden scoff across the line and Fury's voice rang out.

" _You did_ _ **what**_ _?"_

Dan's voice faded slightly – as if he had turned to speak directly to Fury.

" _Oh, don't start shitting kittens. I did what I had to. Blame it on Barton – he's a bad influence."_ His voice rose again as he refocused on the phone.  _"Brunner's a worse shot than me, believe it or not, but he said his prayers are with you."_

Something told Phil they were going to need all the help they could get.

"Thank you, Dan – and thank Brunner when you get the chance."

" _Just bring the kid home, Phil. That's all the thanks I need."_

Phil nodded.

"I'll call in when we land."

" _Keep your damn head down, Phil."_  Fury's authoritative tone rang across the line again.  _"One off-books rescue is enough for today."_

"Will do, sir."

The line went dead and Phil lowered the phone. He took a moment to just breathe and then he turned to Todd.

"The rescue team got shot down. We're up. All bases in the area are locked down, so we're bypassing Afghanistan all together. Fly directly into Uzbekistan – put us down five klicks out from the compound. We saddle up as soon as we touch down."

Todd nodded and started adjusting the programmed auto pilot.

Phil rested his head back against the head rest and forced himself to breathe deeply. They were still – at  _best_  – ten hours out. Clint had to hold on for at least that much longer – had to keep fighting until Phil and Todd got to him.

_I'm coming, Clint. Just keep fighting._

* * *

_Clint rested his head back against the cold wall of his room – cell? cage? He wasn't quite sure what label this room belonged under but he knew that he hated it. With no windows, no furniture and nothing but a bucket in the corner, it had made an uncomfortable home for the past two days. It didn't help that they kept the room just cold enough to be miserable – and they'd taken his jacket, his shoes,_ _**and** _ _his socks._

_He drew his head forward when he heard the lock on the cell door click._

_Two days with nothing – no word from whoever had him – no food – no water – and no damn sleep. Every time he drifted off, speakers hidden in the wall started blasting with some teeny-bopper, annoying-ass music and blinding florescent lights lit the cell._

_He was exhausted, his mouth dry as a desert, so far past hungry he didn't even feel it anymore, and cold – always cold. Still he climbed to his feet and faced the door as it opened._

_The man that stepped in was unfamiliar – blonde hair, green eyes, tall and broad._

" _Hawkeye." The man's tone was condescending – and infuriating._

_Clint glowered. He hated it when the enemy had more information than he did. There was no reason to let that annoyance show, though._

" _Asshole." He greeted in the same condescending and casual tone._

_The man's lips quirked and he stepped closer._

" _Who do you work for?"_

" _Cutting to the chase so soon? Not even gonna wine and dine me first?"_

_The man looked around Clint's accommodations – no doubt wondering how two days of such conditions would ever be considered 'soon'._

" _I'm not that easy." Clint smirked, watching a flash of frustration sweep through the man's face._

" _Very well."_

_And then he was stepping back out the door. Clint frowned as the lock clicked back into place. That was not nearly as eventful as he'd expected._

_Then the speakers blared to life and Clint flinched – covering his ears._

" _It's not gonna work!" he shouted over the music – out to whoever was listening – and he was certain they were. He'd spotted the camera hidden up in the corner right after he'd woken up. To prove his point, he uncovered his ears and moved back to his spot in the corner._

_He made a show of making himself comfortable and then gave the camera a jaunty little wave._

" _You're gonna have to do better than this!"_

_The music kept playing._

* * *

_Clint sighed in relief when they turned the lights and music off, and dropped his head down onto his knees. It had been three – four? – days now. And beyond the physical illness he was now suffering from because of dehydration, his head was fuzzy from lack of sleep – made harder to deal with because of the lack of adrenaline. Sitting in a cell all day was a recipe for stir craziness._

_And he was definitely getting stir crazy._

_He closed his eyes and sighed, feeling sleep pull at him. Just as he let his shoulders relax, the lights came back on and the music started again._

" _Fuck you!" Clint shouted at the camera, his voice cracking with disuse. "Turn it off! It's not going to work – so just turn it the fuck off!"_

_He stood and stalked over to his affectionately-named 'shit bucket' and threw it with what little strength he had left at the camera._

_A moment later the door opened._

" _Seriously, man? What the hell do you want?"_

_The blonde interrogator – who he hadn't seen hide nor tail of since their first meeting – just smiled pleasantly._

" _Just tell me who you work for – and this will all end."_

" _Okay." Clint sighed, leaning back against the wall and resisting the urge to slide down it. "I'll tell you…I work for –" he paused and raised his eyes to meet the other man's, "Santa."_

_The interrogator glared darkly._

" _No wait – the Easter Bunny! No – no – the_ _ **Tooth Fairy**_ _!"_

_Clint was suddenly overcome with nearly hysterical laughter and he couldn't help but slide down the wall as his legs lost strength._

" _Maybe you'll be more willing to talk at a later point."_

_The man turned to leave and before Clint could stop himself he called out._

" _Wait!"_

_The man turned back._

" _All you have to do is tell me who you work for – and I'll let you sleep."_

_Clint clenched his jaw. He wanted to sleep – more than he ever had in his life. But he couldn't – wouldn't – give up SHIELD._

" _Have it your way."_

_The man left again. As soon as the door locked, the music started again. Clint covered his ears and yelled in frustration._

* * *

_Eight hours later – Clint realized he couldn't make himself stand up anymore. When the door opened again, Clint just shook his head. They'd have to kill him – because he wasn't going to give up SHIELD._

_But it wasn't the blonde man standing in the doorway._

_**Phil** _ _._

_His handler moved carefully closer._

" _Clint?"_

" _How did you find me?" Clint winced. His voice was nothing but sandpaper on wood._

_Phil looked vaguely apologetic._

" _I never lost you, kid."_

_Clint frowned, his exhausted mind struggling to process the meaning of those words. Phil crouched next to him and held out a small bottle of water, placing it in Clint's lap. Clint just stared at the bottle as Phil carefully took Clint's wrist in one hand, subtly pressing his index and middle finger to his pulse point. He used the other hand to lift Clint's chin and check his eyes._

" _You set a new time record."_

" _Record?"_

_Then it clicked._

" _Training."_

" _Longest anyone's ever gone without giving up any information. We stopped because you've hit the physical threshold for the exercise. So you passed with flying colors. Though … you are the first to literally throw shit at the camera."_

_Clint just frowned._

" _As far as I'm concerned, kid, you just proved you can take anything."_

_Clint scowled at him._

" _And what the hell did the Andes prove?"_

_Phil unscrewed the bottle of water that was lying listlessly in Clint's hand, then raised it up to Clint's mouth._

_"Start drinking that. SLOWLY." Then Phil smiled. "And yes, the Andes proved you could take just about anything."_

_That brought a weak smirk to the eighteen year old's lips. He blinked heavily and vaguely noticed a guy with medical gear joining them in the small room. Phil turned and leaned against the wall next to him as the doctor worked to set up an IV. It took Clint a moment to register the man's face. It was the guy Phil had put in charge of his medical stuff – Wilson._

_Against his will, Clint's head listed over to Phil's shoulder. Smirk still in place, Clint forced out a tired response to Phil's words even as his eyes drifted closed._

" _Old news, Phil."_

* * *

Clint coughed when icy water hit him in the face for the  _second_  time since this ordeal started. He sucked air in through his nose as steadily as he could – biting back a groan as his the muscles in his abdomen spasmed – still riding the wave of the last hit he'd taken from what had to be a cattle prod. The bullet wound on his side throbbed mercilessly – still reeling from the electric abuse it had taken.

The last shock must have knocked him out and they'd decided to bring him back to the land of the waking with cold water –  _again_. It felt like every nerve ending he had was on fire – and every muscle that the electricity had coursed through was twitching.

The memory that had visited him while he was in never-never land had been unexpected. Not his first anti-interrogation training with Phil – but the first time he hadn't known what the hell was going on. He'd learned a lot about his limits in those 80 hours he was locked away in that room.

He'd also learned to hate boy bands.

But most importantly, it reminded him that, even when it felt like he was all alone, Phil was always watching out for him. Just like Clint was absolutely certain the man was doing now. He may not be there yet, but Clint knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that Phil was coming. Because it didn't matter how much he'd pissed the man off – or if the rest of SHIELD had decided to throw him to the wolves – Phil had always, and hopefully  _would_  always, come for him.

That thought brought a pang of longing to Clint's chest. He wanted Phil here – wanted some connection to his handler, even if it was just a comm. Even with everything these guys had taken from him – had deprived him off – during his captivity not having that lifeline was the worst.

And that's what Phil was to him – had been since the day they met: a lifeline.

His muscles quaked again. He hated electro-shock torture – always had and probably always would. He'd gotten uncomfortably acquainted with it in Cairo. The round he went with the Taser then had ranked high above this one when it came to pain. The boys in Cairo had been particularly brutal.

But this round had screwed with his head in a way no other torture ever had. He hadn't been able to see when the next shock was coming, and he hadn't known where it was going to hit. By the time they'd finally stepped back, he was twitching – and not from the electric currents still making their way through his system.

Now he sat and tried to calm his breathing, tried to focus his hearing and gain some sort of handle on what was coming next. But his heart was still pounding – or maybe it was his head – and all he could hear over it was boots shuffling on the concrete.

The open back hand to his cheekbone area caught him completely by surprise.

"So-ov-a-itch!"

It was out before he could stop it – and honestly so garbled by the gag that he barely understood himself. But the jeering laughs that suddenly filled the room they were in told him they had understood clear enough.

He was a little more prepared for the closed fist to his exposed ribs – but only because he'd realized what turn this gathering was taking.

It was time for a good, old-fashioned beat down.

He'd taken more than his fair share of those in his life time and as long as he braced himself at the right time, he would come out of it okay.

Problem was, he couldn't brace himself for something he couldn't see coming. And it was hard to even guess where they were coming from when there were at least two or three guys taking swings.

They were only six hits in when he felt a rib crack.

He clenched his teeth so hard on the gag that they ground together through the fabric – but he didn't let a sound past his throat. He wasn't going to give the bastards the satisfaction.

_I can take it._

A closed fist had his head snapping so hard to the side that his neck popped and the skin of his cheek split – despite the cloth bag between it and the fist.

 _I can take it_.

Three quick hits to his ribs had another rib cracking under the onslaught. He clenched his teeth and held the shout of pain that wanted to burst free to a low, barely audible groan. He had been taking beatings since he was seven years old. He had always found the strength to make it through. And he always would.

_I can take it._

* * *

Phil glued his eyes to their GPS and watched them cross over into Uzbek airspace. They were so close – less than an hour from the compound. It had been just under ten  _long_  hours since Fury had called with the news of the failed rescue attempt. And Phil knew Todd had done what he could to make up time in the air – but they could only fly so fast.

Now they were closing in.

Phil glanced back at the backpacks – stuffed full of medical gear. At least twenty pounds each he didn't relish the idea of hiking five kilometers with one of those strapped to his back. It would slow them down – and he had a sinking feeling that Clint couldn't afford for them to go any slower.

"Put us down two klicks out."

Todd's head snapped around.

"What?"

"Two klicks – we don't have time to hike five with those packs."

"The other team…"

"I know what happened to the other team." Phil snapped. Then he forced himself to take a deep breath. "We need to get to Clint as fast as we can." Phil wasn't sure how, but he just knew that they didn't have any time to waste.

He had a sudden memory of his dream –  _was that only last night?_  – and of the overwhelming feeling that he had to find Clint before it was too late. That same feeling was swelling in him now. They were running out of time.

"Phil – you don't know wh–"

"I know that Clint doesn't have time for us to hike five kilometers. Put us down at two."

Todd's mouth snapped shut at the razor's edge in Phil's tone. He nodded and returned his attention to the controls.

Phil closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe deeply.

"I'm sorry, Todd. I'm just…"

"I get it, Phil." Todd absolved him quietly. He tossed Phil a glance. "We'll find him."

The lump that settled in Phil's throat then threatened to choke him.

They had damn well better. Phil refused to accept any other outcome.

One way or another, he was bringing Clint home.

* * *

Clint jumped when for the  _third_  time he was forced awake by a spray of icy water. He shook his head, trying to clear the thick cobwebs that were clouding his mind. The last thing he remembered was reeling from getting hit hard enough to make his vision – which was mostly black because of the hood on his head – go completely white. Then the lights had gone out.

He twitched at a sound to his left and then glowered beneath the hood when someone laughed. He closed his eyes and tried to take a deep breath – made more difficult with two cracked ribs. He had to get himself back under control, had to get his frayed nerves pulled back together.

But no matter how he strained – how he breathed – or what mantra he repeated in his head, every sound sent his consciousness into hyper-aware, paranoid overdrive. And he knew exactly why. It was more than just not being able to see – though that was a  _major_  part.

It was the control.

He didn't have any.

Even when surrounded by enemies, tied to chairs, beaten bloody, or dazed out of his mind, Clint had always been able to scrounge some sort of control. His usual defense mechanism was smart assery in its finest form.

But he couldn't even do that, because he was gagged and they weren't even giving him a chance to …

Clint frowned around the gag. They weren't giving him a chance to talk – because he didn't have anything to say they wanted to hear. No questions about who he worked for. No demands to spill what he'd learned about them. Not even any threats of what would happen if he didn't comply.

It was just pain. They just wanted to make him hurt.

But something about that didn't fit. If he'd stumbled on something here, they should have just killed him, silenced whatever information he might have passed on and been done with it. But – thankfully and to his everlasting confusion – they hadn't done that either.

Instead, they'd tossed a bag over his head so he couldn't see them and they couldn't see him.

He couldn't even disconcert them by staying eerily stoic – a gift born of learning to prepare himself for whatever they did, another way he kept himself from feeling powerless.

Right now, though, that's exactly how he felt.

Powerless.

And that was worse than any physical pain they threw at him. Pain he could deal with – he was used to it. But he hadn't felt powerless since he was seven years old – had  _fought_ never to feel that again. Even with all the shit he'd been through – some of which he'd caused – he'd never felt like this, like he had no control over anything.

And every moment that passed, his nerves frayed a little more.

His heart nearly jumped out of his chest when a too-strong grip suddenly locked around his right hand, forcing his fingers straight. Against his will, Clint's breathing sped up and his heart started pounding.

They were going to break his fingers.

Then something hard locked around the nail of his right index finger.

_Oh, holy hell._

And then it started to pull.

* * *

"That took too long." Phil nearly growled as he checked his side arm and then shouldered one of the med packs.

"We had to come in slow and low. We don't know how they spotted the other team and we're no use to Barton dead." Todd shot back as he powered down the jet and reached for the other pack. He moved over to the weapons locker at the back of the jet and pulled it open.

It took a long moment, but Phil joined him and they both pulled out automatic rifles and extra ammunition. Phil took a deep breath and pressed the button to lower the ramp.

"Let's go get your boy back, Phil."

Phil nodded and together they moved down the ramp – rifles at the ready.

Two kilometers – 1.2 miles – that was all that separated him from Clint now. Well, that and an unknown number of hostiles with unknown weaponry.

They took off in a jog.

It only took fifteen minutes – a time which Phil blamed on the heavy packs – for the compound to come into sight. This was the main compound, nestled at the base of a mountain. Phil knew there to be three more secondary locations within six square kilometers. They immediately dropped to their stomachs and pulled out identical sets of small binoculars.

"I count four guards." Todd announced a few moments later.

"Two standard entry points," Phil added. "Three places we could turn  _into_ entry points."

Todd nodded and pulled his lower lip between his teeth.

"Best option?" Todd proposed suddenly. "Storm the castle."

Phil inclined his head in agreement.

"I don't see a way to go in quiet."

"Not without being spotted." Todd sighed. "We go fast and hot. We may not be Barton, but let's stick as close to 'one shot, one kill' as we can."

"One problem." Phil lowered his binoculars and glanced at Todd. The trainer raised an eyebrow in question. "We go in hot, they panic and put a round in Clint's forehead before we can get to him."

"What do you want to do?" Todd asked carefully.

That was a good question. Phil  _wanted_  to get to Clint as fast as possible. He  _wanted_  to kill every last one of these bastards.

He did  _not_  want to be the reason these people cut their losses with Clint.

"We go quiet."

Todd sighed.

"We can't take out those guards without our guns. I see why Clint likes his bow – that'd be really useful right now. We don't have that option. We have to snipe them and then we can go in fast and quiet."

Phil nodded.

"Who takes the shots?" Todd asked.

"We both take two," Phil decided as he lowered his binoculars. "I'll go east."

"Then the west is mine." Todd tossed him one last look. "Meet you in the middle?"

Phil nodded.

And they moved.

Phil took the shots farther away that he probably should have, but the last thing he wanted to do was give them time to catch sight of him before he could take them down. Somebody must have been smiling down on him though – because both men's heads snapped back and they dropped with one shot.

When he got to the gate, Phil took only a moment to assess the lock before looking up and around, trying to find a different way in. He didn't have the time it would take to pick a lock of that caliber and contrary to popular belief, shooting at a lock wasn't nearly as effective as people wanted to think. It was also loud.

Phil pulled off his backpack and stripped out of his jacket. Then he shrugged the backpack back into place and looped the strap to his rifle over his shoulder, and followed it with his jacket. Then he wrapped his fingers in the chain link fence and started to climb as quickly as he could. He paused just under the barbed wire at the top and reached with one hand for his jacket.

One quick toss and he had it covering the barbed wire.

Then it was just up and over.

Yeah, right. Climbing over barbed wire, with something protecting you from it, worked in fiction only – NOT in real life. He could feel the barbs working their way through the fabric as he rolled over the top. He yanked the jacket off the wire and jumped the eight feet to the ground, bending his knees to absorb the impact.

Then he ran for the meeting point with Todd.

The other agent was already waiting.

"I say we go for the more stealthy approach." Todd tossed the strap to his rifle over his head and unsheathed a wicked looking serrated knife.

Phil nodded – there was less chance they'd spook whoever was inside if they couldn't hear them coming. He reached to the sheath at his back and pulled his own knife.

"Let's go."

Phil led the way through the door they'd chosen and Todd filled in behind him silently. They paused at their first corner and Phil waited, listening.

He held two fingers over his shoulder. Todd tapped his shoulder to show he understood.

They moved as one, rounding the corner and sinking their knives into the necks of the two men walking down the hall towards them. They caught the bodies as they fell and lowered them silently to the ground.

Phil wished they had time to hide them, but now that they were here, he just  _knew_  Clint was running out of time.

He and Todd continued on, stopping at the door to a room labeled "control". Phil counted them down with his fingers and then Todd pushed the door inward.

Six men.

They'd gotten to five before the last managed to press a button under the desk. An alarm started blaring throughout the entire compound.

"Shit!" Phil hissed as Todd jerked his knife across the final man's throat.

"We need to move!" Todd replied sharply.

Together they sprinted into the hallway, stowing their knives in favor of their automatic rifles. Stealth was gone now – now it was just a race to see if they could get to Clint in time.

Phil almost missed it – he was so distracted by shooting down the men coming at them from the other end of the hall.

"Wait!" He grabbed Todd's arm and pulled him down an adjoining hallway. He pointed at a hose snaking around corner of the floor and the wall, leading down the hallway. "It's this way."

"How do you know?" Todd demanded.

Phil hadn't wanted to think about that – he'd just wanted to follow his instincts. But now his brain was spinning in a dangerous direction. A water hose in the middle of a compound of this size, with at least one known captive … Phil knew more than enough about interrogations involving water.

Hell, the number "6 minutes, 26 seconds" was imprinted like a brand in his mind.

That hose had to lead to Clint.

"Just trust me." Phil snarled back as they took off, following the trail of the hose.

"There!" Todd pointed, a hundred feet ahead of them the hose disappeared under a door.

As if on cue, the door suddenly opened and four men spilled opened fire before the men had even realized they were in danger.

"Cover me!" Phil shouted as he ran for the door, stepping on and around the fresh bodies to get inside the room.

He froze just inside the door.

The hose was still running, creating a river towards the drain on the back wall. There was a metal chair, tipped over on its side. A man was still secured tightly to it, but there was a bag over his head. He wasn't moving, hadn't even reacted to the chaos around them.

Maybe it wasn't Clint. Clint would never be that still.

But then he saw something on the man's left shoulder – a scar, fresh and pink, long and thick from surgery. Phil knew that scar better than he knew the scars on his own body. That was the scar made by the bullet that almost took everything from him.

_Clint._

* * *

End of Chapter 12

Take a deep breath on 3 everybody...1-2-3 *breathe*

Here's your preview!

* * *

_They should have gotten to him sooner – **Phil** should have gotten to him sooner. He should have protected him – that was his  **job**. When would he stop failing._


	13. Say It For Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> Huge shout out to Kylen she was a quasi-co-author this chapter. She is responsible for all of Dan, she did the medical research (and there was a lot) and helped make sure everything went in the right places lol. She also gave me the idea for what I did to Clint here - not gonna give that away though :)
> 
> Enjoy Chapter 13!

  
_It is a far, far better thing that I do, than I have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that I go to than I have ever known._   
_**Charles Dickens** _   


* * *

Phil was next to the chair in three strides.

"Clint!"

His worry spiked when there was no immediate response – no twitch, not even a vague acknowledgement of Clint being anywhere near consciousness. Phil pulled his knife again and cut at the ropes, freeing Clint's ankles and then his wrists.

It was while he was pulling Clint free of the chair and carrying him away from the water to a dry patch of concrete that two horrifying realizations set in.

One – the bag over Clint's head was sopping wet. Clint had definitely been put through some form of water torture.

Two – it didn't feel like Clint was breathing.

Phil carefully eased Clint to the concrete and pulled at the duct tape holding the bag in place. When it was loose – he cautiously peeled the bag away, carefully cradling the back of Clint's head the entire time. Then he tossed the bag to the side and rested Clint's head back on the concrete.

Clint's eyes were closed and his head lolled listlessly to the right.

"No – no – no – no…"

Phil pulled frantically at the knot holding the dirty gag in place. When it was finally gone, he leaned over and put his cheek next to Clint's mouth – hoping the breaths were just too faint to notice.

Nothing.

He pressed his index and middle finger against the pulse point on Clint's neck almost frantically. His own breathing sped up the longer he went without feeling a pulse.

_This couldn't be happening._

"Todd!"

The trainer glanced over from where he was guarding the doorway.

"I need that bag!" Phil shrugged out of his own backpack and dug his cell phone out of his pocket – finding Dan's number, putting the device on speaker and placing it on the ground next to him.

"What's wrong?" Todd demanded. Phil looked to him just as the man tossed his backpack to him and then set it next to his own. Then he returned his gaze briefly to Todd and just shook his head.

Then he tilted Clint's head back, leaned over the archer's chest, lined his hands up, and started compressions.

_30 compressions – 2 breaths._

Simple. Easy. Textbook CPR. The rote routine – almost automatic after far too many training classes – gave him something to focus on. Something other than the fact that it was _Clint_  he was doing this on. That it was  _Clint_  he was trying to save.

He should've probably been wearing gloves and using a mouth guard, but there was nothing in Clint's medical history he didn't already know about. And he couldn't bring himself to waste the time it would take to dig them out of the bag. Clint didn't have that time to waste.

This type of thing was only supposed to be in his nightmares.

_"CLINT!" His barked order demanded attention, but Clint's eyelids didn't even twitch._

_Phil felt his heart hit his throat as he pushed his index and middle finger against the pulse point on Clint's neck. He waited, but the steady thump he was hoping for – that he_ _**needed** _ _– wasn't there._

" _No…"_

_Phil bent over and put his cheek in front of Clint's mouth and nose. The air between them remained still. Phil shook his head in denial, folding his hands over Clint's sternum and starting compressions. He pushed down on Clint's chest thirty times and then tilted his agent's head back and blew two breathes into his still lungs._

" _Come on, kid. Don't do this to me."_

The ringing on the phone abruptly stopped and drew him out of the memory and back to reality.

" _You found him?"_ The relief and hope in Dan's tone was almost too much to take.

Phil clenched his jaw and ignored the question – its answer would become painfully obvious with his next words.

"He's not breathing." The words came out more strained than he expected – hurt him physically to say – but he went on anyway. "And he doesn't have a pulse."

Phil felt moisture cloud his eyes as he spoke the words – even as he mechanically continued his ministrations.

Todd's head snapped around to look at him with wide eyes. Phil saw him take a step towards them out of the corner of his eye, only to return to the door and fire down the hall suddenly.

Phil leaned over to blow two breaths – his fingers slipping in the blood on Clint's face as he held his nose. He returned his hands to Clint's sternum and resumed his compressions.

To his everlasting gratitude, Dan made the transition to business mode with flawless speed.

" _Okay, tell me exactly what you're seeing. What happened? I assume you already started CPR."_

"Started right after I dialed." Phil replied as he kept pumping Clint's chest – internally willing the boy not to give up. "There was a running hose – and the bag they had over his head was soaked through." Phil gave Clint's body his first real appraisal.  _Jesus._  "He's got heavy bruising and some sort of burns covering his torso – that gunshot wound is pretty inflamed – and –  _God_  – he's missing half the fingernails on his right hand."

They should have gotten to him sooner –  _Phil_  should have gotten to him sooner. He should have protected him – that was his  _job_. When would he stop failing?

" _Any bleeding? What about that bullet hole Romanoff gave him?"_

Phil scanned Clint's body once more as he neared the end of this round of compressions. His eyes landed on the angry, inflamed bullet wound. Whatever they'd done – it hadn't reopened the wound. Quite suddenly, his mind drew the connection to the burns without his permission. The inflamed irritation on and around the barely-healing wound matched the rest of the burns on Clint's body.

He'd seen the tool abandoned on the ground when he walked in – had registered it in the back of his mind just like he was trained to.

A goddamned cattle prod.

He forced his eyes away from the burns to Clint's face – still scarily lax.

"No – other than his hand and cuts on his face, nothing external."

Phil hoped to god there was nothing  _internal_  – nothing that Phil was currently making worse.

He leaned over and blew in two breaths.  _Come on, kid_. He started the cycle again.

" _Okay,"_ Dan blew out a breath over the line,  _"Drowning then. Are you clear of the water?"_

Phil checked the area – even though he had moved Clint out of the water instinctively.

"Yeah, but  _he's_  still wet."

" _Don't worry about that now – I'm more worried about you shocking yourself, Phil. I need you to get out the AED and get it running. Can Bryan help you out?"_

Phil tore open the bag he knew housed the AED and pulled it out. He unzipped the case and pressed the button that would bring it to life. A surge of adrenaline coursed through him – he finally felt like he was doing something that was going to fix the situation.

He glanced at Todd and watched him fire at something out of sight.

"He's watching my six. We've still got hostiles in the area."

" _Okay, then wipe his chest down and get those pads in place. You know how to run an AED, Phil."_  Somehow Dan's words were calm – and bore just enough reassurance that Phil felt like he had this under control. So he nodded to himself. He  _did_  know. He knew what he had to do.

He pulled the small towel from the AED pack and used it to wipe away any residual water from Clint's chest.

The AED's automated voice suddenly sprouted from the machine.

" _Unit okay."_ Phil resisted the urge to tap his fingers impatiently as he reached for the pads.  _"Adult pads."_  Phil tore open the pad pack and pulled pads out.  _"Stay Calm."_ No SHIT. _"Check responsiveness – Call for help."_

Phil mentally urged the machine to move  _faster_  even as Dan came across the line again.

" _Ignore all of that, Phil and just get those pads on him."_ He paused momentarily.  _"Though staying calm is probably a good idea."_

Phil clenched his jaw and tore the sticky backs off the pads. Calm was easier said than achieved. This wasn't a practice dummy – it was  _Clint_. And not for the first time in their all-together incredibly short and drastically long relationship – his life was in Phil's hands.

It had been equally terrifying  _every – single – time._

The AED spoke to him again as he pressed the pads to the appropriate places on Clint's torso – upper right shoulder, lower left side.

" _Attach de-fib pads to patient's bare chest."_

 _Come on._  Phil mentally urged – he let his eyes drift across Clint again as he waited. He swallowed thickly and wished vainly he could go kill the mother fuckers again – more slowly this time.

" _Don't touch patient – analyzing."_

Phil forced himself to breath – to acknowledge that this was a necessary part of this process.

" _Shock advised."_

Phil already knew that and already had his finger hovering over the shock button.

" _Don't touch patient – press flashing shock button."_

Phil pressed the button before the sentence was fully completed. There was a brief pause and then Clint's body jolted.

" _Shock delivered."_

Hope soared for one glorious moment – and then crashed back down when Clint remained just as still as he had been from the start. This had to work – it  _had_  to. Phil found his chest tightening painfully at just the thought of it failing.

"S _tart CPR."_

Phil obediently leaned over Clint's body again, folded his hands, and started compressions again. He distantly registered the AED telling him he was giving good compressions, but mostly he just focused on what he was doing, focused on Clint's face and every detail he could see. The water still clinging to his eyelashes – the bruising under his eyes – the gashes on his cheek, forehead, and bridge of his nose. But what drew his attention the most was the bluish tinge that had started to creep across his lips.

" _Come on, kid. Don't do this to me."_

_Phil started compressions again – knew it was wasted. CPR sustained life – it didn't bring it back. But he couldn't stop – wouldn't. His mind replayed the moment Clint was shot back before his eyes. Clint had stepped in front of him, had seen something and pushed Phil back._

_Clint had taken a bullet for him._

_Clint had died for him._

" _No!" Phil nearly growled, his chest tightening painfully and his eyes overflowing with moisture. "You don't get to do this, Clint!"_

_He blew two more breaths, but nothing changed. Clint's skin was growing cold._

" _Clint!"_

He blinked away the memory – and the terrifying parallel it bore to this situation – and kept going – pausing after 30 compressions to give two breaths. Fatigue began to settle in, but he ignored it. He would ignore it forever if it meant he could save him. He just continued the cycle – over and over – until the AED told him to stop.

" _Don't touch patient – analyzing."_

Phil sat back – breathing hard – and wiped the back of his wrist across his forehead.

" _Shock advised."_

_Damn it._

He vaguely heard Dan echo the sentiment across the line as he reached for the machine.

" _Don't touch patient – press flashing shock button."_

Phil pressed.

Clint's body jerked…

" _Shock delivered."_

…and then settled back on the floor. But then Phil watched in nearly hysterical disbelief as the kid sucked in a horribly labored breath, blew it out just as strenuously, and then drew in another. It was equally labored, but it was there.

Clint was breathing.

The relief that swept through Phil was almost enough to send him into a puddle of emotion on the floor.

But then the third breath hitched – and Phil's own breath hitched with it – and then it dissolved into a hacking cough that swung immediately to gagging.

"God  _damn_  it!" Phil exclaimed uselessly, the relief that had been so real a moment ago giving way to panic.

Dan came across the line in the same breath that Phil had spoken, speaking more  _over_  him than in response to him.

" _Turn him on his side."_  Dan barked anxiously. Phil was already complying – ripping the AED pads off and grasping Clint by the shoulder and hip and rolling him. Dan went on.  _"And get the oxygen out and get it on him."_

Phil steadied Clint on his side by bending the agent's knee and then nearly dove into the packs in search of one of the small oxygen tanks he knew Dan had sent with them. He recovered it with a feeling of sudden victory and unwound the clear tubing. He checked it was securely attached to the corresponding mask – and then checked that it was secure to the tank as well – then opened the stop-valve, checked the air flow and slipped the mask over Clint's mouth and nose. He winced at the puddle of liquid-y bile on the ground in front of Clint's face and gently eased the archer away from it.

He remained hovering over Clint even as he spoke over his shoulder at the phone. He kept one hand on Clint's shoulder and the other resting lightly on the crown of his head – willing some of his own strength to the kid.

"Done – now what?"

" _I take it you have no idea how long he was down."_

"He was still warm – and his lips didn't start going blue until right before the second shock."

He heard Dan sigh with what sounded like relief.

" _Get the pulse-ox out of the bag and on him – then give me the reading. Don't panic if it's a little low at first."_

Phil forced himself to end the contact he had with Clint and turn back to the bags – searching for the appropriate device. He found it with little difficulty and attached the clip to the index finger of Clint's left hand and then stared at the small hand-held device and waited for it to get a reading.

His eyes drifted to Clint's face again. The puffs of condensation that appeared inside the mask strengthened the relief he was feeling. But Clint's eyes were still mostly closed. He still hadn't shown any signs of returning to reality.

The display on the handheld suddenly shifted – displaying numbers. Worry shot through him again.

"It's reading at 85 and 55." Phil knew the first was the oxygen saturation, the second a pulse rate. Neither was particularly reassuring, but under his hands, he could feel subtle movement. "He's starting to shiver."

" _Shit – the shivering could be screwing up the reading. Screw it. Set the oxygen flow to 15 liters – that's the max, Phil. And see if he's starting to come around at all."_

Phil adjusted the tank and leaned over Clint, carefully resting his palm on his temple.

"Clint?"

At first there was nothing – not even a twitch. Phil swallowed – licked his lips and tried again.

"Clint." He set his tone a little harder this time, forcing a little authority into his tone.

He was rewarded with Clint's eyes widening slightly, shifting from the half-lidded fog that had been present since he'd started breathing again to something a step closer to aware.

His eyes shifted slightly, not really focusing on Phil, but seeming to acknowledge he was there. The clamp that had tightened around Phil's chest hours ago – when Clint had called to say he was in trouble – finally started to loosen.

"Hey, kid." He swallowed back the swell of emotion that was trying to surge forward. "Just breathe, okay? I'm right here. Just breathe."

Clint closed his eyes wearily and swallowed with a visible wince. Phil felt something shift against his other hand. The emotion swelled again when he looked down and saw it was Clint's right hand – still bloody from the damage done to it. His damaged fingers were brushing against the back of Phil's hand.

Phil turned his hand obligingly and carefully gripped Clint's.

"Okay, kid. You've convinced me. I forgive you." Phil whispered quietly.

He heaved a sigh, wondering how many more time Clint would flirt with the line between life and death, and knowing painfully that this wouldn't be the last.

"I forgive you," he repeated softly, giving Clint's hand a squeeze.

Clint's hand flexed in response – barely tightening – and his eyes opened again. This time he focused directly on Phil.

He had always been an expert at communicating with only looks – and now was no exception. Phil read his message loud and clear.

_I'm sorry._

"Don't worry about any of that," Phil insisted. "We're okay, Clint. We're  _okay_."

Clint closed his eyes again – something resembling relief rolling across his expression. His expression that was usually so carefully blank – so thoroughly guarded – was now laid bare.

" _Nice Hallmark moment, Phil. But he's probably not going to remember any of this later."_ There was a trace of Dan's usual humor in the statement, but even that sounded forced.

Phil knew that – had dealt with a half-conscious Clint enough time to be certain of it. But even so, he needed to say it to ease Clint's mind in the moment. And he would keep saying it until Clint remembered.

"Phil?"

Phil looked to Todd at the doorway. The man's dark skin looked pale – and he had to swallow before he went on.

"We need to move."

Phil looked back at Clint. There was no way he was going anywhere under his own power. It seemed to take all the energy he had just to focus on breathing.

" _He's right, Phil. He needs a real doctor. Pack up the gear and take it with. You might still need it. Call me when you get back to the jet and we'll go from there until you can get him to the Afghan base."_

Phil nodded to himself.

"Okay."

Suddenly Fury's voice came over the line – and Phil realized he had probably been there the whole time.

" _Nix that directive – Afghanistan is locked down tight. And given their covert status – and what happened to their team – I sincerely doubt visitors would be welcome right now. Vienna is your next best option."_

"Yes, sir."

Fury started to say something else, but Dan cut him off – sounding irritated and finishing off mutterings about not being welcome  _there_  after this.

" _Be careful moving him. If he didn't have busted ribs already, he does now."_

Phil nodded again. He remembered vaguely feeling bone give way while he was doing compressions.

"Got it."

" _Phil … GO."_  Dan encouraged. And with nothing more said, Phil reached to disconnect the call.

"Todd – help me."

The trainer was there in two strides, and started helping Phil pack up the bags. Then without being asked, Todd shouldered both bags – one on his back, and one against his chest. He brought his gun to bear again and went to the door while Phil moved to Clint.

"Nice and easy, kiddo."

Phil carefully pulled Clint up into a seated position, pulling Clint's arm over his shoulder. Then he made sure the oxygen tank's strap was looped over his opposite shoulder. Finally prepared, he hooked one arm under Clint's knees and the other under his shoulders – swallowing as Clint's forehead lulled against his neck.

Then he lifted.

* * *

_BREATHE._

The internal command rebounded with all the subtly of a sledge hammer through Clint's mind as he painfully sucked in air. His body still tingled with the all too familiar feeling of a shock of electricity tapering through it.

_BREATHE._

That's all that mattered – all he could focus on. He had to breathe.

The world faded away to gray, only to swim back into focus a moment later.

His eyelids felt as if they were glued shut – and the effort it took to open them even a slit nearly sent him back into unconsciousness. The room around him was nothing but spinning blurs.

_BREATHE._

Something inside him rebelled – became lodged in his throat. He coughed and the blockage was momentarily gone, before returning again – choking him.

_BREATHE._

But he couldn't. The world turned to gray – and then he coughed and when he inhaled air again it came in smoothly. He forced his eyes open again and realized he was on his side.

There was a puddle of something on the ground in front of him.

The world faded away again – only to return abruptly when something hard closed around his nose and mouth. He almost panicked – and then rich, sweet oxygen flowed into him and he relaxed.

_BREATHE._

Something warm – and overwhelmingly familiar – settled on his shoulder, on his hair. And Clint let himself drift away.

"Clint?"

A voice – painfully familiar – drew him from the fog he was wrapped in.

"Clint."

_Phil._

Clint forced his eyes open wider. Phil was here – Phil had found him. The realization would have brought tears to his eyes – if he'd had the strength to produce them.

He shifted his eyes.

He was there – hovering over him.

_Phil._

"Hey, kid." Phil had come for him. "Just breathe, okay? I'm right here. Just breathe."

_Breathe._

Clint let his eyes drift closed and obeyed – tried to swallow a moment later but winced at the pain it caused on his raw throat. He shifted his hand – feeling childish, but unwilling to resist the urge to reach for Phil – to increase the contact between them. To anchor Phil to him so he couldn't leave him – couldn't turn out to be a figment of his exhausted mind.

_Please don't leave._

As if responding to his silent plea, a warm hand suddenly tightened around his.

"Okay, kid. You've convinced me. I forgive you."

Clint felt his chest tighten – wishing wildly that he wasn't imagining those words. That they were real and not just his exhausted and tortured mind's way conjuring up comfort – conjuring what he wanted most.

"I forgive you." Phil's hand tightened on his and it knocked the reality home. Phil was here – really here.

Clint tightened his grip as best he could and forced his exhausted eyes open again – seeking Phil out. If Phil could forgive him – he could man up and apologize.  _Really_  apologize.

But he couldn't speak – didn't have the strength. So he threw it all into his eyes, begging Phil to believe him.

"Don't worry about any of that…We're okay, Clint. We're  _okay_."

Clint closed his eyes – relief so strong washing over him that he didn't know how to react.

_We're okay._

That's all Clint wanted anymore. He kept his eyes closed – let himself fade back into the fog – ignoring everything else around him. All that mattered was Phil's hand around his – reassuring him that he was there – and that they were okay now.

Clint focused on breathing. Phil was here. He was safe.

_Breathe._

* * *

Phil looked up as the jeep Todd had "procured" from the compound's motor pool came to a halt.

"You got him?" Todd asked as he climbed out and shouldered their bags.

Phil nodded and shifted to get Clint out of the jeep. The archer had been going in and out of consciousness ever since they left the cell. Mercifully, this was one of the 'out' times. While still a delicate process, it made getting Clint out of the jeep a little less stressful.

He carried his charge and the still-connected oxygen tank onto the jet. Todd was rolling out several blankets on top of each other.

Phil shot him a grateful look and gently deposited Clint on the blankets.

"I'll get us fired up and pointed towards Vienna." Todd was already moving towards the cockpit.

Phil nodded in vague acknowledgement and pulled out his cell phone.

Dan picked up after one ring.

" _How is he?"_

"Still breathing – in and out of consciousness."

" _How's his breathing?"_

Phil watched Clint's chest rise and fall for a moment.

"Unsteady – hitches every now and then."

" _About what I expected. Keep an eye on it and let me know if it gets any more labored. Is Bryan flying?"_

"Yeah - we're taking off now."

" _Okay, first things first. Give me a reading on the oxygen tank. If I'm right, it's gonna be damned close to zero."_

Phil shifted the tank so he could see the readout.

"It's at 20 percent."

" _Okay, dial it back to five liters. That should get you about another half hour, then break out the second tank."_

Phil nodded – eyes drifting to the backpacks Todd had deposited close by.

"What now?"

_"I want you to start an IV, use the lactated ringers. The sooner you get that started, the sooner you can get some drugs on board if you need to. How dehydrated do you think he is?"_

Phil pulled open the bags and dug out the IV kit. He tore open an alcohol swab and reached for Clint's nearest hand – his left – even as he responded.

"I think it's safe to say the only water he's had in the past thirteen hours is the stuff that was in his lungs."

Phil gently pinched the skin on the top of Clint's hand and watched it sluggishly return to place.

"He's pretty dehydrated."

What had started as a snort of laughter from the doctor turned into a sigh.

" _Okay, run the IV wide open. There should be an 18-gauge needle in there."_ Dan paused and then went on.  _"Phil, how far out from Vienna are you?"_

Phil rubbed the back of Clint's hand with the swab and then reached for the 18- gauge IV needle. A few deft moves later, he was taping the needle down.

"We're at least five and a half hours out."

He spent the next few moments hooking up the appropriate bag of fluids to the needle – opening it up – and then taping it to the jet wall.

"IV's in – now what?"

" _Get me a set of vitals. Blood pressure, heart rate, respirations. And put the pulse-ox back on."_

Phil nodded.

"On it." And he set to work. A few minutes later he announced his report. "Okay, BP is 90/55 and he's breathing at 12 respirations per minute. His pulse ox is 92, heart rate at 52."

" _Not great, but not horrible. Let's run the IV and see if those numbers improve."_ Phil heard a loud thump on the other end of the line, and then the sound of Dan cursing creatively and loudly.

"Dan?" Phil felt an unexpected rush of amusement. "Everything okay?"

There was a scuffle on the other end of the line, a rustle, and Wilson was back on the line.

" _Sorry about that. Kind of on the move here."_

"On the move?" Phil couldn't help his curiosity.

" _Yeah, as in moving."_  Dan sighed.  _"Phil, anything I have you do right now is a double-edged sword. The drugs you have on hand will help relieve some of the swelling and improve his heart rate, but they can also cause certain complications – none of which I want you trying to combat while you're in the air. Let's let the IV run, and keep taking his vitals every 15 minutes. If he starts getting worse, call me back and I'll likely have you push some drugs."_

Dan took a breath.

" _In the meantime, I need you to keep an eye out for a couple things. One – listen for any lung congestion. That'll be your first sign of secondary drowning – which I'm hoping like hell won't be an issue, at least not right away."_

Phil swallowed – the words 'secondary drowning' echoing in his head. He rubbed his hand across his eyes and forced a deep breath.

"Got it – what else?"

" _Depending on how much water got into his system, his blood pH could be shot to hell. The Ringers is close as we can get to right now to normal, but I just want you alert to the fact this may not be over."_ Dan's voice stayed soothing, calm.  _"Might be worrying over nothing, might not be. Just keep an eye on things. I've already called over to Vienna, and Lukas promised me his best trauma doctor would NOT leave the building."_

Phil released a breath and let the relief at hearing Dr. Brunner was ready for them hit home.

" _Other than that, you mentioned superficial injuries. Deal with that stuff."_

Phil nodded.

"Okay. I can do that."

" _And just keep talking to him. With the bond you two have – that'll be enough to get him to hold up his end – or at least it better be."_

Phil felt a surge of warmth thinking about that bond – crafted through blood and fire.

" _And Phil?"_

"Yeah?"

" _Very nicely done. I may need to make you an honorary paramedic when this is all over."_

"Personally I'd rather do without the added experience."

" _Yeah, I gathered. No picnic on this end either. Just…take it easy. Whatever happens from here on out, you're doing everything you can. We all are."'_

"Thank you, Dan."  _For everything._  The meaning he meant to pack into those simple words must have made it across the line because Dan sighed.

" _Thank me later, okay? Just call me if anything changes."_

"Will do."

Phil lowered the phone and disconnected the call. He returned his gaze to Clint and sighed deeply.

"I'm right here, kid. Just hang in there."

On a whim, he reached and gently squeezed Clint's hand before turning to gather the basic first aid equipment he would need to start patching the archer up.

* * *

Phil blinked up at the ceiling – focusing with absurd intensity on a water stain in the ceiling tile. He'd dropped down into this hard plastic waiting room chair more than three hours ago – after being unceremoniously ordered out of the trauma room where they were treating Clint.

Something about being 'in the way'.

Dr. Brunner had appeared seemingly out of nowhere and calmly escorted him to the waiting room – reassuring him that Clint was in good hands. Todd had been pacing the waiting room when they arrived. Brunner had deposited Phil in a chair and then disappeared back through the emergency doors.

Phil had kept his attention on those swinging doors for over an hour before acknowledging that staring at the door wouldn't make news come any faster. Then he'd rested his head back against the wall, crossed his arms over his chest, and stretched his legs out.

Todd was similarly sprawled a few chairs away.

A nurse had tried to coax them into leaving to get some rest only once. Something in the glare Phil had given her must have warned her off because she hadn't been back.

He blinked wearily, clenching and then unclenching his hands where they were folded under his arms. He was so damned tired. The nearly six-hour flight from the compound to Vienna had been – in a word – exhausting.

An hour out from Vienna, Clint's breathing had gone from worryingly labored to terrifyingly weak. He'd had Dan on the phone after the first hitch in the archer's breath. The doctor had led off with telling him to calm the hell down – then he'd briskly instructed Phil to dig into the container of preloaded syringes and find atropine and nitro.

Once he'd sent those into Clint's system, it had only taken a few minutes for the archer's breathing to even out again. Then Dan had told him to start a fresh round of fluids and set it at a slow drip.

It had taken Phil a good half an hour to come down from that adrenaline high.

Then they'd gotten to Vienna and Phil had fought to stay at Clint's side amidst the chaos that had erupted around them as the medical team swarmed them the moment the bay door opened. Then everything had happened really fast.

And now he was waiting – and left to wonder when along the line he'd become so familiar with waiting room chairs.

Quite suddenly, someone dropped down into the chair between himself and Todd. Phil pulled his head forward – ready to glare the newcomer into getting up and leaving.

And came face to face with Dan Wilson.

"We've got to quit meeting like this."

Phil stared – jaw slightly slack – for a long moment lost for words. Todd was staring with wide eyes from his spot on the other side of the doctor. Dan – for his part – just leaned back in his chair and brought a steaming cup of coffee to his lips.

"What the – when did…" Phil rubbed his tired eyes. "How did you  _get_  here?"

Dan swallowed his coffee and gave Phil an odd look.

"Miracle things called planes – get you places with incredible speed."

Phil's baffled look shifted to mild annoyance and Dan rolled his eyes.

"Come on, Phil. I was on a plane ten minutes after we hung up after bringing the kid back." Dan's lips stretched into a smirk. "I  _did_  tell you I was on the move, you know."

Phil huffed a slight laugh – he supposed Dan had him there. The doctor's expression sobered.

"I couldn't stay there and do nothing – I needed to be here."

"I thought all the bases were on lockdown." Todd spoke up with an arched eyebrow. "Council's orders."

Dan cleared his throat and muttered under his breath as he sipped his coffee again.

Todd and Phil just stared at him until he let loose a nervous chuckle.

"Yeah…about that." Dan had the good grace to look mildly repentant. "Fury told me to brief Vienna on what was coming their way. He didn't say  _how_ , so – uh – I figured, what the hell – I'll do it in person."

Phil's eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

"Wouldn't you have  _had_  to call from the plane to get that briefing to them before we got here?"

Dan shifted in his seat.

"Yeah, Fury's still shitting kittens about it. How do you and Barton manage to defuse that walking time bomb?"

Todd scoffed.

"Barton sets him off on  _purpose_ half the time – just to see the explosion. Something tells me the diffusing part is all Phil."

All three men shared a slight chuckle over that before sobering again. Dan sighed.

"What did you want me to do, Phil? Sit on my hands back in New York? I'd have gone crazy. Barton's not the only one with the balls to break the rules."

"I'm glad you're here," Phil assured. "And Clint will be too."

"Speaking of…you want a briefing on our kid?"

Phil sat up straight in his chair.

"You know how he's doing?" he demanded sharply. But before Dan could reply, he went on. "Why the hell didn't you lead with that?"

Dan held up both hands in defense.

"I was planning on it when you started asking a  _million_ questions." Dan then smiled, but with none of his usual snarkiness – only warmth. "You think I'd be joking around if it were bad news?"

Phil swallowed thickly – relief starting to seep into him.

"He's okay?"

Dan blew out a sigh.

"He will be, okay?" He held up a hand as Phil opened his mouth to demand more information. "Let me run through all of this first, then you can ask whatever you want. After that – I'll take you to see him, okay?"

Phil nodded silently – urging Dan with his eyes to start talking.

"Okay, first of all, he's on a vent, and probably will be for about 24 hours." Dan waved a hand to prevent Phil from cutting in. "Relax, it's precautionary to insure the stability of the airway. He's got enough swelling, pulmonary edema, that Dr. Mueller didn't want to take any chances – so that's the first thing they did. It's also why they kicked you out, Phil."

Phil stared at him hard for a long moment.

"You told them to." It wasn't a question.

Dan stared right back, unapologetic. "If they had to go that far, yeah. After the last 18 hours, I didn't think you needed to see that."

Phil's jaw clenched and he looked away briefly – shaking his head. He bit back the urge to argue with Dan and forced himself to acknowledge the truth in Dan's assumption.

It was Todd that got the conversation moving again.

"What else?"

"They've got him on a bunch of drugs, mostly to even out his blood chemistry and to keep him sedated." Dan smiled slightly. "They won't know 100 percent one way or another until after they take him off the vent and run some cognitive function tests, but judging by what he was able to  _communicate_ ," Dan smirked, "before they intubated him, it sounds like he's all there, Phil."

Phil managed a smirk. Clint could be a  _colorful_  communicator when he wanted to be – and often without words.

"Let me guess," Phil smiled, "he was signing."

Dan snorted.

"Lukas said – and I quote – 'I did not think they taught those words in sign language.'" Dan shook his head. "They don't have him completely under, so I asked him how he felt. I got something resembling a one-fingered salute in reply." Dan sat back in his chair. "That's about all the proof I needed. I told him to cool off, not fight the vent and I'd bring you back ASAP. He seemed to relax after that."

For a moment Phil just stared – and then he started to laugh – admittedly slightly hysterically. Only  _Clint_  could be quite  _literally_ clawing his way back from death and manage to throw his normal amount of attitude into a simple hand gesture. Dan was right – they didn't need any more evidence that Clint would be okay – that he would come out of this on top.

And apparently it was then that this whole goddamned situation decided to hit him with all the subtlety of a freight train.

Clint had  _died_  – had crossed the line he so often flirted with. Phil hadn't just had to pull the archer back from the ledge – he'd had to reach over the ledge and keep Clint from falling.

Before Phil realized what was happening, the laughter was gone and he was dropping his head into his hands to hide the moisture that was pooling in his eyes.

They had come too damned close this time.

And maybe he hadn't slept in too damn long.

And maybe…

He almost lost it completely when Dan's hand settled gently on his shoulder.

"He's gonna be okay, Phil."

And that did it. He clamped his hand over his mouth and clenched his eyes shut – straining to keep the breakdown of emotions from becoming too blatantly obvious to the rest of the world.

They had gotten so damn lucky – because a few minutes later and Clint was beyond saving. A few minutes earlier – maybe they'd have spooked the captors into using something more permanent than water.

For all the bad luck that followed Clint around, he also had a streak of uncanny  _good_  luck that followed in its wake. Because despite  _everything_  the kid had been through, he was still alive.

And that's what mattered.

So Phil forced his breathing to even out and wiped his hand over his face.

"Can I see him now?"

Dan opened his mouth – no doubt to throw out some of his usual humor – but then he paused and just nodded solemnly.

"Yeah, of course. You tagging along too, Todd?"

Todd's eyes shifted to Phil – simultaneously seeking permission and begging for acceptance. Phil nodded. He wasn't alone in this – Todd had been right there with him – forced to stand guard at the door when every instinct he had had probably been urging him to help. And then there was Dan – Dan, who had probably been going insane for being reduced to nothing but a voice on the phone during the whole ordeal.

They all cared about Clint – and Phil could no more deny them the right to see Clint than he could deny himself.

"Let's go."

They stood and – together – headed for the swinging double doors, to where Clint lay beyond them.

* * *

End of Chapter 13

Be honest - who had no idea I'd EVER go that direction. Clint DID tell Tony in Trust that he almost died in Uzbekistan...so technically you were warned lol

We go back to Nat in the next chapter and see what she's been up to :)

Here's your preview

* * *

_"Is he alive?"_

_She asked before she could stop herself – but she had to know. Barton wasn't supposed to die because of her._

_Fury eyed her seriously for a long moment – no doubt weighing the sincerity of her question._

_"We don't know."_


	14. Say It To Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> A special thanks to Kylen my beta - again, she was Dan's voice in this :D She also got up WAY earlier than she actually needed to so she could review Chapter 13 first :)
> 
> And I'm sure you're all ready for me to stop blabbing and let you see what Nat's been up to :D
> 
> So here you go, Chapter 14

  
_We're our own dragons as well as our own heroes, and we have to rescue ourselves from ourselves._   
_**Tim Robbins** _   


* * *

_**One week earlier…** _

* * *

Natasha looked up from her intense inspection of the cuticles on her left hand when she heard the lock on her door buzz. She tilted her head to try and see who it was and felt a surge of adrenaline spike through her when she recognized Barton's handler.

She was off the cot and shifting into a more defensible position before he was even fully in the room.

But he didn't look concerned – or even really affected. He just gave her a dry look and closed the door behind him.

"Have a seat." He motioned at her cot.

She narrowed her eyes – there was no way she was going to fall into line that easily.

He took in the look on her face and his own expression hardened. When he spoke, she realized his tone had too.

"Sit."

That kind of tone elicited one instinctive response in her – immediate obedience. She clenched her jaw, cursing the lifetime of conditioning. Then she slowly moved to her cot and sat – meeting the man's eyes unflinchingly.

For a long moment they just glared at each other, sizing each other up.

And as much as Natasha hated to admit it – she couldn't get a read on him. Considering she made her living on reading and subsequently manipulating men, that was a hard pill to swallow.

He however, seemed to come to some sort of conclusion about  _her_  because he shifted and spoke.

"You're here because my agent decided to throw away the rule book. He decided to risk everything for you." She saw his jaw tick angrily. "You, above all people, should know what that involves – and the consequences."

For the first time in a very,  _very_  long time, Natasha felt a pang of something strangely like guilt. She knew – even after just the short time they'd known each other – that Barton didn't deserve to lose everything.

She blinked suddenly, forcing the unfamiliar emotion away.

"Clint thought you were worth it." She could tell by his tone that Agent Coulson didn't agree. "So let's talk about how you're gonna prove that to the rest of us."

Natasha held his gaze and remained silent. She wasn't sure what he wanted her to say – he was obviously the one with all the power in this situation.

He fixed her with another hard look and then took the conversation in a direction she wasn't quite prepared for.

"They'll kill him."

She blinked.

"If he was wrong about you – and this all goes to shit – it won't be about him losing his job anymore. They'll have him executed for treason."

Natasha felt another stirring of that unfamiliar guilt and it was starting to piss her off. Why the hell was this Barton guy getting under her skin?

"So…"

She returned her focus to him.

"Is he wrong?"

That may have been the  _one_  question she didn't mind answering. So she did – very simply.

"No."

Because right now, that was about the only thing she was certain about. She wanted a new beginning. A blonde archer had gone out of his way to give that to her. She wouldn't waste it.

Something in her eyes must have clued him in to her sincerity, because he drew back slightly, looking momentarily lost for words.

Then he simply nodded.

"Then prove it."

She squared her shoulders at the challenge. She  _would_  prove it – to all of them. One day at a time if she had to. She might even prove it to herself somewhere along the way.

But there was at least one thing she was certain of. She wasn't going to let Clint Barton die for being the first, and only, person that had ever believed in her.

So sat up straighter and met Agent Coulson's eyes squarely.

"What's first?"

* * *

Natasha sat Indian style on her hard metal cot – hands resting lightly on her knees – and regarded the man sitting in the chair across the small cell from her. His hair was more gray than the brown it had seemed to be once upon a time, and he had glasses that kept sliding down to the tip of his nose.

She really wanted to snatch the glasses and snap them in half. If he pushed them up his nose with his index finger one more time, she was going to do just that. She made sure none of her thoughts showed in her expression as they stared at each other. Occasionally he would scribble something in the notebook he'd brought with him, and Natasha wondered what he was possibly gleening from this experience beyond a realization that she was the most stubborn person he'd ever met.

"You know," the man – Dr. Hasling, according to his introduction – spoke suddenly, crossing one leg over the other, "you're  _not_  the most stubborn person I've ever dealt with.  _Close_ – mind you – but not the most stubborn."

Her eyebrow arched curiously when his lips twitched into a mildly amused smile.

"No –  _he_  – he was a piece of work, but he had a lot more anger to deal with than you."

Natasha's eyes narrowed. How the hell did  _he_  know how much anger she had?

"And he was less sure he wanted to be here than you are. You seem very confident in your decision."

Natasha glared at him. So he was unreasonably perceptive – it  _was_  his job she supposed.

"You may know him." Hasling's eyes focused sharply on her. "He's the man who saved your life."

Natasha knew her eyes widened only fractionally – but she also knew Hasling would see it. He tilted his head curiously.

"How does that make you feel? Him sparing you?"

Natasha swallowed. How  _did_ it make her feel? Indebted? Confused? Grateful? Unworthy? Guilty? All of the above? None of them?  _She_ hadn't even worked that out yet – how could Hasling expect her to articulate it?

He sat back suddenly, looking bemused.

"You feel guilty."

Natasha stiffened. She hated shrinks.

"You're aware of what his decision may cost him – and you feel as if you didn't deserve it."

"He shouldn't have done it." He should have killed her. It was what she would have done. She never would have hesitated long enough to change her mind.

Except she had – in the alley. She'd let him live.

"But he did. And now we must move forward. Do you feel indebted to him?"

Natasha rolled her eyes slightly before she could stop herself. Of course she did. He had risked everything for her – how could she ever pay him back for that?

"Interesting."

Her eyes narrowed and Hasling seemed to read the question in the gesture.

"Ms. Romanoff – if Clint Barton were here right now, what would you say to him?"

_Why?_

Why did he do it – that's what she'd say. But Natasha remained stubbornly silent. Hasling changed tracks.

"Did he give you a choice? To come in?"

She nodded once.

"And you chose to join SHIELD willingly."

She arched an eyebrow and glanced demonstratively around the room. He smiled.

"Of course."

He scribbled notes on his notepad.

"I'm going to clear you for training, Ms. Romanoff. Conditionally, of course. I want to meet with you three times a week for the duration of your basic training."

Natasha sat up straighter. That was it? She was in, just like that?

"I'm somewhat of an expert in reading people – even those most closely guarded." He looked at her over the top edge of his glasses. "You belong here – at SHIELD. And you genuinely want to be here."

She nodded even though it wasn't a question.

Hasling smiled.

"Thought so." He stood and motioned at the camera. "Someone will be down to release you within the hour."

She watched him pull the door open.

"Dr. Hasling."

He turned back curiously.

"Did you know that he belonged here too? When you met him?" She had no idea why she asked – why she even wanted to know. But Clint Barton was a walking contradiction – full of mystery and intrigue. The more she found out – the more she wanted to know.

Hasling seemed to know exactly who she was talking about.

"He's never belonged anywhere more," Hasling paused thoughtfully, "though – I believe there are some people meant for even greater things."

He gave her a meaningfully look – making her wonder if he was putting her in the same category as Barton.

* * *

"Don't move."

Natasha cut her eyes over to Dr. Dan Wilson – the man assigned to give her a medical work up – the last step before she could officially start training. She sat perfectly still, watching him insert the needle into her arm and slowly start withdrawing blood.

"He's a good kid, you know. Smart."

She blinked in surprise – glancing at him again. He was focused on the job at hand – exchanging the now full vial for an empty one. He cast her a quick glance and clarified.

"Barton."

The clarification hadn't been needed – the number of people she knew in this place was fairly limited. How was it she kept getting assigned the staff that knew Barton personally? It wasn't like she needed a reminder about what he'd done for her.

"He didn't need the shit doing this caused." He glanced at her again.

Natasha looked down at the needle in her arm – just to give her something to focus on.

"Look," he sighed suddenly and paused in what he was doing. "I'm inclined to trust Barton's gut when it comes to you, mainly because I've never known it to be wrong."

He smirked at that – as if there were some private joke she wasn't privy to. She had a feeling he wore that expression often. But then his expression sobered –turned deadly serious.

"But if you screw this up – if anything happens to him because you weren't on the level – you won't have just SHIELD to answer to. You'll answer to me – and the handful of other people here that are  _lucky_  enough to call Barton a friend."

Any other day, any other person she would have scoffed, maybe even have laughed in his face. She was Natasha Romanoff –  _the_  Black Widow. A doctor and his  _handful_  of loyal friends would never have made her even break a sweat.

But there was something in his eyes – something that told her that if it came to that, he and the friends he spoke of were to be feared.

And she believed it.

So she nodded and he nodded once in return. Then he removed a third full vial and set it aside, withdrew the needle, pressed a small folded square of gauze against the bleeding pinprick and guided her hand to hold it down.

"Next up is a full body scan. I'll be documenting all past injuries for our records and then I want a look at those ribs."

Natasha watched him thoughtfully. He spoke as if their brief conversation had never happened – as if he hadn't just issued a blatant warning. She was mildly impressed. But when he met her eyes again she saw that it was an act of professionalism. His eyes told the true story. He was worried – very worried, no doubt about Barton.

Barton might not seem to matter to a whole lot of people here – but those he did matter to…he mattered a  _hell_  of a lot.

She was hit with an unexpected wave of longing. She wondered what it was like – to have people care about you like that, to care enough to threaten a professional assassin when you were just a doctor.

She wondered if she'd ever have that too.

The doctor's eyes narrowed briefly and then softened very minutely.

"You and him aren't so different, you know."

"So I've been told."

"You haven't threatened me yet – so you're one up on him so far."

Natasha's eyebrow arched. Barton just kept surprising her.

"He never did have an issue making waves. Some things never change." Wilson looked saddened by that at the same time he was amused.

Natasha watched him carefully, waiting to see if he had more to say. He seemed to be concentrating very intensely on stripping his rubber gloves off, and was twisting his rolling stool back and forth almost absently. He finally seemed to come to a decision.

"Look…I asked to be assigned to you."

So it wasn't such a coincidence.

"SHIELD may be, well, SHIELD, but it doesn't mean people don't have prejudices." The man sighed, looking pained. "Barton could tell you a lot about that, actually." He paused in what seemed to be mid- thought and seemed to switch tracks in his head. "Barton had a lot to deal with when he showed up…" he continued carefully – his tone indicating he was being very cautious not to reveal too much.

She realized he was doing what he'd been doing since this conversation started – protecting Barton.

"You? You're not just coming in here as a contract assassin, but  _the_  contract assassin – the one Barton got sent to kill." Wilson shook his head. "People aren't just going to look twice. They're going to wonder whether he fell for the Black Widow's charms. Or lost his mind. Or ... well, they're just going to wonder."

That figured. After all, you did tend to scare people with just a look when you were an assassin – especially when Black Widow was your brand. And judging by what appeared to be popular opinion, Barton had alienated his fair share of people too on his way to finding a "few" loyal friends. She, herself, wouldn't have bothered.

Wilson watched her, apparently looking for some sort of a response. When she only stared back at him, he continued.

"If Barton thinks you deserve a chance – then I'm inclined to agree. That's more than I can say about most of the other staff here." Dan waved a hand vaguely at the door. "So rather than wait for something to explode, I'm going to tell you right now to come to me if you need something – medical, that is. It'll make your life easier."

She nodded slowly, surprised not by the knowledge that she wasn't very popular at the moment, but by the offer of – not quite friendship – but … amnesty. Dan granted her a slight smile before standing and passing off the three vials of blood to a nurse – no doubt to be labeled.

"Now – come with me. We'll see if we can't get you out of here sooner rather than later."

* * *

Natasha stared across the dark room as she lay in her bunk for the first time – in a room full of other recruits. There were three others sharing this bunk room – all sharing a room that was big enough for exactly two bunk beds. Their assigned footlockers were made to slide under the bottom bunk.

Natasha had spent the hour before lights out sitting on her bunk, reading all the training information and manuals she'd been given. She knew now that these bunk rooms were temporary, designed especially for the month of basic training. Recruits would thin out as training continued. When they finally graduated into official "agent" status, they'd get assigned to their specialty unit and move into permanent quarters.

Her future unit was labeled very simply "Covert Operations". Within that unit were two categories: "Espionage" and "Assassinations". She figured she'd dabble a little in both of those. What really intrigued her was the breakdown of the "Assassinations" sub-unit. There was a specialized branch off of the normal run-of-the-mill covert assassinations that she specialized in.

" _Distance Assassinations"_

As far as she knew – and judging by the scuttlebutt that seemed to be on everyone's tongues since Barton had flown out earlier that afternoon – there was only one "Covert Distance Assassin" in the entire SHIELD network.

Barton.

He was literally in his own category at SHIELD. She hoped she would distinguish herself just as effectively.

The rest of the recruits would eventually become members of field teams. Some would be medics, others techs – and a handful of other specialties.

Needless to say there were a lot of different personalities being forced to co-exist.

Right now – she was feeling the strain of that for the first time – trying to sleep in a room full of other people. Part of her would prefer her cell. At least there it was quiet.

Here she had a snorer, a mouth-breather, and a sleep-talker. And unfortunately, her bunkmate was cursed – or maybe  _she_  was the one cursed – with extreme flatulence. And someone in the room needed to discover deodorant.

She wasn't sure how she was supposed to get any sleep. What she really wanted was to get out of here – just move around. Find somewhere  _quiet_  to sleep – somewhere that wasn't a constant assault on her senses.

But she wasn't sure if she was ready to step a toe out of line just yet. Not when the ice she was on was paper thin. She'd seen a dark-skinned man in a long leather coat watching her intently from a second story interior balcony of sorts while she was getting a tour of the command center.

She'd never had a gaze quite so hard and intense focused on her before – that was saying something – and he only had  _one_  eye. She wondered what his glare would be like with two.

She had a feeling a conversation was coming between the two of them.

She was equal parts dreading and anticipating it.

She shifted in her bed, moving from where her back was pressed against the wall so it was instead resting flat on the mattress. The mattress, at least, was a nice change from the holding cell. She sighed deeply with exhaustion. She would like nothing more than to sleep right now, but her brain just couldn't shut off.

There were three too many people in the bunk room with her.

She heard a sound and made a disgusted face – reaching to cover her mouth and nose with her hand. She wondered what Dr. Hasling would say about her sudden urge to smother her bunkmate with a pillow.

She cast her thin sheet off and reached over the edge of her bunk for her shoes on the floor.

Forget not stepping out of line.

She had to get out of here – just for while. If she played her cards right, she'd be back before the wake-up call. And maybe tomorrow she'd be exhausted enough to sleep  _despite_ her roommates.

* * *

She found the roof access stairwell by accident. It wasn't directly connected to the main stairwells. She very carefully maneuvered her way up the stairs, lithely dodging the security cameras with athletic contortions and limber leaps.

She pushed the roof door open, stepped silently out, carefully hiding her face from the one camera she couldn't dodge. Once out on the rooftop, she inhaled deeply, pulling the cool night air into her lungs. She let it out with a sigh and felt some of her tension leave with it. She was about to head towards the edge when she heard boots shuffling around the corner of the brick wall that encased the stairwell.

She flattened herself against the brick wall and carefully eased towards the corner. Slowly, she peeked around the corner and froze.

Agent Coulson.

He was standing on the edge of the roof, a black touch-screen cell phone clutched tightly in one hand. She watched him shake his head and slide his finger across the phone. Then he pressed his thumb against the screen twice only to abruptly press the button to turn the screen black again.

"Space, Phil."

She arched an eyebrow – idly curious about what the hell he was muttering about.

He shook his head again and stuffed his phone in his pocket.

She watched him blow out a deep breath and stare up at the stars for a moment. She nearly jumped out of her skin when he suddenly spoke.

"You know, there are those who would say it's rude to stare."

He glanced at her over his shoulder.

She swallowed uncomfortably and stepped out from the cover of the brick. How the hell had he known she was there?

"I was a field agent before I was a handler."

And how the  _hell_  had he known what she was thinking?

"What did I say about the staring?"

She instinctively averted her eyes. She head him sigh.

"Couldn't sleep?"

She looked at him again. He jerked his head slightly – an invitation closer. She joined him warily on the edge of the roof – shaking her head in response to the question.

He nodded as if insomnia were something he was intimately familiar with.

"This spot is a good cure for that."

She saw something in his eyes, something that told her he wasn't talking about himself.

Barton.

Maybe they  _weren't_  that different.

She looked out over the dark compound for a moment – debating on whether or not she really wanted to ask the question on her mind. She shouldn't care, and it wasn't really her business.

But the more she thought about it, the more she wanted to know.

"What happened to Barton?"

Coulson stiffened and seemed to suddenly have an issue pulling in air. Then he swallowed and replied very simply.

"He left on an assignment this afternoon." He glanced at his watch and added, almost to himself, "Probably hasn't even landed yet." He sighed deeply.

"Where?"

He shot her a skeptical – and very distrusting – look.

"Sorry – I just…" She sighed. "Feel responsible, I guess."

Something flashed in his eyes and she hoped he had picked up on her sincerity. He seemed to internally debate and in the end shook his head.

"I can't reveal details of an active mission."

She nodded. It made sense – but it was also a really good excuse.

"This assignment," Natasha hesitated and then went on, "is it because of what he did for me?"

Agent Coulson rubbed his face and huffed a tired laugh.

"This assignment is just the beginning – to make him scarce while the people in charge cool down. He really threw himself in the fire ass-first when he decided to bring you in."

Natasha looked away. How was it that she was the contract assassin, but it was Barton that was taking the punishment? She had never been one to be prone to guilt – but the more she thought about what Barton had done, the more familiar with the feeling she became.

Agent Coulson sighed suddenly.

"Clint makes his own choices. He always has – no matter what me, the Director, or the Council has to say about it. It's part of what makes him good at his job." He waited until she met his eyes. "He made the choice – so unless you crawled into his head and took over his mind, this isn't your fault."

Natasha swallowed thickly. He could claim that all he wanted – she might even be grateful he did – but she would always feel responsible. Feel like she owed Barton.

"He's a good man." She stated suddenly, cutting her eyes over to meet Coulson's once more. "Barton."

Agent Coulson suddenly looked like it was taking all of his control to keep his face neutral.

"No matter what you think about me – or what he did…" she made sure sincerity was visible in her eyes, "you should be proud of him – and of who he is."

Agent Coulson looked away, back out at the night and swallowed thickly.

Then he nodded.

"I am."

* * *

_**One week later…** _

* * *

The moment Natasha saw Adams screw up his maneuver she shifted away from him. There was no way she wanted to be anywhere close to the other recruit when Agent Bryan called him to task.

And Agent Bryan  _always_  called screw ups to task. He never seemed to miss anything – no matter how small. She'd seen several of the recruits in her training class – some multiple times – get called out over the last week. Sometimes it was just a simple reminder – other times, a firm reprimand. But a few times – like now – it was a full dressing down.

"Just what the fuck do you think you're doing, Adams?" Agent Bryan's voice rang through the dark night as clear as if he'd been on a loud speaker. "Get your ass front and center."

She saw Adams step stiffly out of line. She fell back with the rest of the recruits. She likened it to distancing yourself from a blast – less chance of catching shrapnel if you weren't right next to it.

She chewed the inside of her lip to hold back a grin when Agent Bryan started reading Adams the riot act – with the aid of a lot of colorful adjectives.

The approach of someone in the dark caught her attention just before a familiar voice rang out through the night.

"Agent Bryan!"

Something was wrong – she could hear it in Agent Coulson's voice. Agent Bryan seemed to hear it too – because his expression shifted.

"Fall back in, Adams." He raised his voice so the rest of them could hear. "And the rest of you, close your ears while your superiors talk over your heads." Then he turned and jogged to meet Agent Coulson.

Everyone else in the group shifted away from the pair, but Natasha was fighting the urge to shift closer. They were talking swiftly in tones she couldn't hear, but from what little she could gather from their body language, something had happened.

She wondered if it was Barton, but then internally shook her head. He was on a crappy assignment to give the powers-that-be time to cool down – Agent Coulson had said so.

It must be something else – another agent – or another situation.

Agent Bryan turned suddenly.

"Get your asses back to your quarters!" She really couldn't help but marvel at the sheer  _level_ of volume Agent Bryan could achieve. "This session is over. Security  _will_  make sure you all end up back in your beds, so do  _not_ test me."

Then he was turning away – moving quickly with Agent Coulson towards the main compound. She moved with the rest of the recruits – as a pack – towards entrance to the residence halls.

They had been back in their bunk room for over two hours – and most of the recruits were back to sleep. But they all jumped to near attention in their beds as a knock came at the door.

The door swung open and a squirrely looking man with glasses stepped in.

"Romanoff – Director Fury would like to speak with you."

Natasha blinked and then immediately pulled her shoes back on. She stood from her bunk and followed him out the door studiously ignored the whispers that trailed in her wake.

* * *

Natasha yawned as discreetly as she could as they made their way through the compound. Resting her eyes worked, even if sleep never came.

The squirrelly man left her at Fury's door and disappeared around a corner – leaving her alone.

She took a moment, inhaled a deep breath, and then knocked twice.

Her second knock was barely finished echoing when a sharp voice bid her to enter.

Without hesitation, she pushed the door open and stepped inside the office.

The Director was sitting behind his desk, typing something furiously on his keyboard and speaking into a cell phone that was cradled between his shoulder and cheek.

"I don't care who you have to wake up! I want to know every agency's intel on the area – who they think is there and what they think is going on." He frowned at whatever the other person was saying. "Well you can tell  _Aaron_  at the NSA that Nick Fury is the one that asked – see if he minds being woken up then."

He abruptly hung up and all but slammed his phone down on the desk.

"Take a seat."

She shifted immediately to one of the chairs across from him, and watched him continue to type quickly. He looked – stressed. Fitting – she supposed – in his type of job. But there was something else there – some underlying emotion that told her there was more than just the job causing him concern tonight.

He hit 'return' on the keyboard and turned his full attention on her – his one eye carrying a heavy weight in its gaze.

"Agent Barton was captured by hostile forces during the course of his current assignment."

Whatever she'd been expecting – had been prepared for – it wasn't that. It was a mission to make him scarce – that was all.

But suddenly the emotion in Agent Coulson's tone – and the worry on Agent Bryan's face – made sense. It wasn't another agent – it wasn't another situation. It was Barton.

"Is he alive?"

She asked before she could stop herself – but she had to know. Barton wasn't supposed to die because of her.

Fury eyed her seriously for a long moment – no doubt weighing the sincerity of her question.

"We don't know."

That was better than the certainty that he was already gone.

Fury stared hard at her – a heat and weight in his gaze that had her resisting the urge to lower her eyes.

"What makes you worth it? What – in his mind – made you worth all of this?"

She wished she knew. She wished she had the nerve to ask Barton that very question.

Fury looked away – looking all together frustrated and exhausted at the same time. He was still looking away when he spoke again.

"If he dies – I'll lose the best covert agent this organization has seen in a  _very_  long time." He looked back at her – his gaze hard enough to crumble diamond. "I need  _you_  to tell me why the hell you would be worth that."

It was like some twisted form of a job interview, she supposed. She'd learned about interviews in her training – part of learning how to act like a normal person when you were so far from it. She'd been told a question often asked is this: "Why should we hire you?"

Fury was essentially asking that now. What made her so special? She could list her skills – tell him about her ability to lie – explain that she'd seen three dozen ways she could kill him with his own belongings just since walking in the room.

But he already knew all of that. He knew who she was – knew what she could do.

She met his intense gaze with an equally intensity in her own eyes.

"Because  _no one_  will ever be more motivated to prove themselves, than I am – and that will make me the  _second_  best covert agent in this organization."

His eyebrow arched curiously and she let her own eyebrow arch in return.

"I may not know him well – but even  _I_ can tell you that Agent Barton won't go quietly. So I figure the 'best' label is still taken…for now."

Fury sat back in his chair and slowly smirked.

"I still think bringing you in might have been the biggest mistake of my career – and of Barton's." He tilted his head and regarded her with what she thought might have been amusement. "But at least you're motivated."

He leaned forward again as his phone started ringing.

"Reports on your training so far are positive – keep it that way and we won't have any concerns. You're dismissed."

Natasha stood, but didn't immediately turn away.

His eyebrows rose in question.

"Sir…"

His eyes narrowed and he sighed.

"Steps are being taken towards his retrieval as we speak. Now again – you're dismissed."

She nodded and turned, moving towards the door. As she slid out she caught the beginning of the conversation as he answered the phone.

"Jerry – tell me good news…. _Jesus Christ…_ "

Then the door closed and she was standing in the hall, her mind whirring as she tried to figure out what  _else_  had just gone wrong.

* * *

Natasha looked up from her notebook – full of notes from their tactical training sessions – when two of her roommates walked into the bunkroom. She shifted her legs, pulling them up so she was cross-legged – with her back against the wall – and turned her attention back to her notes.

"So he'll be back in time for morning training?"

That was Jackie, an annoyingly smart future tech-geek.

"Yeah. I heard his jet was inbound right now."

Devon – an equally annoying, muscle-bound grunt, no doubt destined to be part of a field team.

"I was enjoying our break from Agent Hardass."

Natasha looked up from her notes. Agent Hardass. That was several of the recruits "secret" nickname for Agent Bryan. He was back.

"I heard the guy that runs the infirmary was on the same flight."

Natasha stiffened. Dr. Wilson had disappeared without explanation three days ago – and it didn't take a genius to figure he'd left to deal with whatever had happened with Barton.

Dr. Wilson and Agent Bryan were coming back together.

That could only mean one thing – because there was only one way  _both_  men would be coming back.

One way or another – Barton was coming back with them.

She set her notes aside and slid off her bed, not even sparing the two stunned and startled recruits a glance as she left the bunkroom. She made her way through the base quickly, taking the most direct route she knew towards the hangar.

At the last moment she diverted – angling toward the catwalk access she'd discovered last night. She climbed up quickly and jogged through the maze until she reached the hangar. Then she crouched – and waited.

Eight minutes later, two medical staff members made their way into the hangar, complete with a wheeled stretcher. They huddled around the stretcher and waited.

Natasha waited with them.

Two minutes later a SHIELD jet taxied into the hangar and powered down. She straightened slightly when she saw the bay door opening.

At first no one came out.

Then she saw him. Dr. Wilson was one his right and Agent Coulson was on his left. Wilson had a hold of one of Clint's biceps and the same forearm. Coulson had one hand on Barton's back and the other locked in a vice-like grip with Barton's. The trio made their way – with painful slowness – down the ramp. Agent Bryan came trotting down after them, carrying what looked like a small oxygen tank in one hand.

She leaned slightly through the rail of the catwalk when she heard Wilson speak.

"Look at that – a mobile bed with your name on it."

She arched an eyebrow curiously when Barton pulled to a stop.

"I don't need that."

He sounded  _terrible_  – like he'd been gargling glass and then for kicks chasing it with nails.

"Clint…" Coulson's tone left no room for arguments, but apparently that tone didn't matter to Barton.

"I can walk to my damn room witho –"

Whatever Barton was trying to say got cut short by a vicious round of wet, painful coughs.

She watched Coulson pull Barton from Wilson's grip and all but manhandle him towards the stretcher. He leaned in towards Barton's ear and said something too low for her to hear. Whatever it was seemed to reach whatever stubborn part of Barton had been resisting, because the blonde agent reached his now-free hand for the stretcher.

"How the  _hell_  do you do that?" Wilson demanded as Coulson helped Barton lay down. The injured agent coughed again and curled onto his side – only to go dangerously pale and immediately roll back on to his back. Coulson's hand reached to grip his shoulder even as he tossed a look at the doctor that Natasha was too far away to decipher, but both men looked back at Barton when his coughing didn't taper off.

Wilson held out his hand to Agent Bryan – who immediately handed over the oxygen tank. A moment later a plastic oxygen mask was slapped over Barton's mouth and nose. Instead of rejecting it – as Natasha expected – Barton pressed it greedily to his face with his own hand.

"Get him to the goddamned infirmary – and no arguments from  _you_." Wilson pointed a stern finger at Barton who just shot him a rude gesture with his free hand and closed his eyes.

The two medics started pushing the gurney towards the exit. Coulson stayed right at Barton's side and Wilson and Bryan followed close behind.

"I swear to god, kid – if you let pneumonia sink its claws in – I'll kick your ass." Wilson's threat – sounding more like exhaustion and worry than an actual, honest-to-God warning – was the last she heard of them as they disappeared through the door. She stood and slowly made her way back the way she'd come.

Barton was  _alive_. He didn't seem to be in the best shape – but he was alive.

She'd been waiting almost three days since Fury had told her Barton was captured to know that. And now that she did – she had no idea what the hell to do now.

It wasn't until she was back on the main floor that she realized where she was headed. When she had decided to head for the infirmary, she wasn't sure. But the closer she got, the more her determination to find out what had happened grew.

When she got there, there was a flurry of activity going on in the main area. She scowled and looked around. Then she slipped down the hall to the second entrance to Wilson's office.

It was usually kept locked.

But she and locks were old friends.

She was in the office before anyone even thought to give her a second glance and then all she could do was wait. Somehow, she didn't really think she'd be a welcome addition to the bustle of activity in the infirmary. She was, in a way, responsible for whatever had happened.

It took a good thirty minutes – but the activity quieted down. She was just beginning to wonder if Wilson was just going to skip coming into his office all together when she heard him.

"And if you even think about sneaking out of here, Barton, I'll handcuff you to the gurney.  _Both_ hands this time – so you can't pick the lock!"

She pushed off from where she was leaning against the wall – catching bits and pieces of Barton's grumbled reply.

"I'll make sure he stays put."

That was Coulson. Barton grumbled something else – but otherwise put up little protest.

And then the office door was opening and Wilson was stepping in.

"Goddamned kid thinks he's Super–"

Wilson's voice cut out abruptly as he flipped on the light only to find another occupant in a space Natasha assumed was normally private. His jump backwards would have been amusing if she actually intended to startle him. Instead she shot him an apologetic look.

He glowered.

"Romanoff, I realize I told you to come to me with a problem, but seriously?  _Now?_ " He ran a tired hand through his hair and came the rest of the way through the door, closing it behind him.

Natasha drifted a step away from the wall, her eyes cutting over his shoulder towards the window that showed the infirmary area. Wilson turned slightly to follow her gaze. She knew he saw her view of Clint's room – directly across from the window – and of Coulson sitting on the edge of Barton's bed. He sighed.

"What happened?"

She'd always favored the direct approach when it was available.

Wilson went from glowering at her to looking…something between sad and angry at the world. There was also a good deal of suspicion in his eyes – something she supposed she should've expected. Something probably a little deserved.

"Why, what's been making its way around the rumor mill here?" He sighed loudly at the number of files sitting in his chair, then abruptly tipped the chair so they spilled on the floor.

Then he sat.

"I mean, surely someone's told you something, or you wouldn't be here asking for details."

She sensed anger in his tone … but she also sensed it wasn't really directed at her.

"Director Fury told me he'd been captured a couple of hours after Agents Coulson and Bryan left." And he hadn't felt the need to give her any more information in the days since. What she  _had_  learned, she'd figured out for herself. "But until half an hour ago I didn't even know if he'd survived."

Wilson's jaw dropped slightly as he leaned back in the chair. After a moment of gaping at her, he grimaced.

"Huh. I supposed that's about par for the course around here." Wilson raised an eyebrow. "So nothing's even made its way around the base?"

Natasha shook her head. She would know – she'd turned over every rock in this whole damn compound looking for information.

"Most of the staff didn't even know the mission went south. I think the Director kept it wrapped up pretty tight."

Wilson narrowed his eyes slightly, and she got the impression she was being ... evaluated in that look.

Finally, he sighed.

"If Fury's not telling anyone anything, I'm not so sure it's a good idea for me to be the source of," and he made air quotes with his fingers, "Barton's Great Escapes, Volume 1,893."

Natasha clenched her jaw and looked away – and a distant part of mind wondered if that number was made up or not.

"Fine…just…" she sighed and met his eyes again. "Can you at least tell me if he'll be okay?"

Wilson's eyes opened wider at her words. Whether he'd caught the desperation in her voice – or the frustration – he suddenly went from guarded to thoughtful.

"Why's this so important to you?"

That was the million-dollar question. She wasn't even sure if she knew the answer to that yet. Why  _did_  she care so much? Was it just the fascination that had taken hold when she met him in that alley? Was it something more?

And suddenly she knew at least part of it.

"Because he's what I want to hope that  _I_  can be. And I won't ever be able become anything close to that if I'm the reason he dies." She needed him to be okay so that maybe she could believe that she'd be okay too.

Wilson's eyes softened and he gestured her towards a chair.

"Sit."

He waited until she did so, then he continued.

"Look, he's not going to die – at least, not if I have anything to say about it. We got him back, and between himself, myself, and Coulson, I'm pretty sure he's sticking around."

"You seem pretty confident." She'd seen the state Barton was in – if only from a distance. She'd also seen him keeping going like the Energizer Bunny with a bullet in his side. Now he was laid out on a bed, pale, and bruised – with that Energizer Bunny nowhere in sight.

"He crossed a threshold this time – one I hope to HELL he never does again – but we got him back. We're just trying to keep a few ... complications at bay, which is why he's here and not released to his quarters. Though, if he has anything to say about it, his stay here will be shorter than I'd like."

Natasha stiffened – losing the second half of his response to the stuttering shock that had taken over.

"Crossed the threshold?"

"Yeah, as in a few guys thought he'd be better off dead by drowning and damned near managed to accomplish it."

Natasha felt some of the color drain from her face.

"Drowning?" She knew she was parroting – speaking out of more shock than anything else. But Wilson had caught her off guard.

Barton had died.

And apparently clawed his way back. His stubbornness was something she was already familiar with and somehow his refusal to die wasn't surprising. She shook her head to clear it, swallowing thickly.

"But he's going to be fine?"

Wilson nodded. Oddly, he looked sympathetic toward her now.

"Well, as fine as he ever is. That kid has spent more time in and out of this infirmary than I care to remember – practically has his own bed." Then, shockingly, he waggled a finger at her. "Don't you  _dare_  going following his example in  _that_."

Natasha blinked – the humor in his tone belying the situation. She couldn't help but nod in response to the directive.

Wilson snorted.

"Like you'll listen any better than he does." The laughter suddenly fled, though, as his face grew serious. "There are more than a few people here whose first priority is looking after him, Romanoff. He'll be fine."

She nodded again and stood – stealing one last glance over her shoulder at the window. Coulson was in a plastic chair now – talking on a cell phone. Barton's head was turned away, but his chest was rising and falling slowly and evenly.

She turned back to Wilson, who was watching her thoughtfully.

"Thank you."

Wilson nodded, then waved a hand vaguely at the door to the hallway.

"Now go on, get out of here. I have to figure out how to pry Coulson out of that chair and back to his quarters. The man hasn't slept for more than two hours at a crack over the last three days."

Natasha shifted towards the door she'd entered by. She debated for a moment and then spoke.

"I know I don't know them that well…but I don't think you're getting Agent Coulson more than ten yards from that bed for a while." She pulled the office door open and stepped out into the hallway. Just before the door closed, she heard Wilson's muttered response.

"It's less than that from that bed to this office."

* * *

End of Chapter 14

And now we know what Nat's been up to.

Now I'm sure everyone is anxious to see how everyone is dealing with the current situation. 

Here's your preview!

* * *

_"Getting shot – **that's**  a major trauma. Getting tortured with a cattle prod – also a major trauma. Getting the fingernails ripped out of my right hand and getting beaten to hell – both major traumas. But let's put aside for a second that all of  **that** happened too and stop tiptoeing around the real icing on the cake. I fucking died!"_

_The nurse shrunk back against the wall, eyes wide. He didn't know if it was his words – or his low, dangerous tone – but there was horror in her eyes._

_"If you're gonna call that a major trauma, you need to find a new profession."_


	15. I'll Leave This Life Behind Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> As per usual, HUGE thanks to my wonderful beta Kylen she's Dan yet again in this chapter :) She's awesome people - I mean for REALZ XD
> 
> I'll shut up now :) enjoy Chapter 15!

  
_The law of sacrifice is uniform throughout the world. To be effective it demands the sacrifice of the bravest and the most spotless._   
_**Mahatma Gandhi** _   


* * *

"And if you even think about sneaking out of here, Barton, I'll handcuff you to the bed.  _Both_ hands this time – so you can't pick the lock!"

"He says that like that would stop me." Clint muttered under his breath, earning an amused glare from Phil.

"I'll make sure he stays put." Phil smirked in Clint's direction as he made the announcement, earning himself a scowl in return.

"You say that like  _you_  could stop me," he grumbled as he tried to shift higher against his pillows – only to go pale with pain at the attempt.

Phil rolled his eyes and moved to help him.

"Kid – I hate to tell you this, but a girl scout could stop you right now."

Phil sat on the edge of the bed at Clint's hip, eyeing Clint's coloring critically.

"Have you ever met a girl scout, Phil?" Clint rested his head back, sucking in a breath. When had talking become such a chore? He fought back the tickle brewing at the back of his throat. "Those kids are vicio-" The tickle decided it didn't like being ignored and turned into a full-blown coughing fit.

Fire exploded in his chest as his broken ribs protested the harsh treatment. That sudden pain – combined with what felt like razor blades slicing through his throat – ended up stealing any chance he had at catching his breath on his own.

Seconds later, an oxygen mask was pressing against his face. He shifted his own hand to hold it in place and shot Phil a grateful look.

"You need to rest, kid. So how about you cut out the chatter, okay?"

Clint dropped his head back against the pillow and let his eyes close. He nodded slightly in response. A warm hand was suddenly squeezing his shoulder gently. Phil didn't need to say anything after that – Clint could read his message loud and clear with just that simple gesture.

_I'm here._

_I'm not going anywhere._

That was enough for Clint to let himself relax back against the pillows and focus on just catching his breath.

"Just breathe, kid."

He'd do whatever Phil told him to at this point. Phil could tell him to get up and go run maneuvers right now and he'd do his damnedest to get it done. That blind devotion he was wrapped up in was also the reason he hadn't put up a fight when Phil had pulled him towards the stretcher in the hangar.

He'd put his handler through too damn much already. He didn't have it in him to refuse the man anything right now. He couldn't even imagine what Phil was going through after everything that had happened.

Clint felt the tightness in his chest ease and the struggle to breathe became less of a battle. Finally, he pulled the oxygen mask away and before he even got his eyes open to set it aside, it was carefully pulled from his grip.

"Sleep, Clint."

The exhaustion that seemed to have been dogging him ever since he'd woken up in the Vienna infirmary two days ago swept in again. He didn't fight it – instead let it carry him into unconsciousness.

* * *

Phil slid off the edge of the bed and moved to retrieve a nearby chair. He dropped into it with an exhausted sigh and scrubbed a hand over his face. It didn't take long for Clint's breathing to even out and for the clenched grip the archer had on the blanket to relax. Phil wondered if Clint even knew he was so openly showing a visual admittance to the pain he was in.

He doubted it.

If he could, Clint no doubt would go through life never admitting to any pain at all. Not even if he was bleeding out and had limbs missing. Clint had a thing against anything he thought could ever be construed as a weakness. And pain – to Clint – was apparently a weakness.

Phil jumped – a true testament to his own exhaustion – when his phone vibrated in his pocket. He fished it out quickly and brought it to his ear.

"Coulson."

" _How are you doing, Phil?"_ The director's tone was heavy with a mixture of concern and its own level of exhaustion.

Phil sighed. That was a good question.

"Hard to say, sir. Clint's settled into the infirmary now – so I guess I can't complain."

" _You can complain all you damn well please, Phil."_

Phil huffed a slight laugh at Fury's gruff words.

" _I'm on my way back from the city. I'm sorry I wasn't there to meet you in the hangar. But I'll come check in as soon as I get back."_

"Thank you, sir."

" _For the last damn time, Phil. Cut it out with the 'sir' shit."_

"Yes, sir."

Just before Fury's end of the line disconnected Phil thought he heard a muttered 'asshole' filter across the line. He smirked and pocketed his phone once more.

He looked up when he heard Dan's office door open again. He turned in his chair and tracked the doctor's approach across the main area of the infirmary. He stopped at the door, settled his eyes on Clint for a moment, before returning his attention to Phil.

He pointed at him and then jerked his thumb over his shoulder mouthing a single silent word.

"Now."

Phil frowned and tilted his head towards Clint and then shook it negatively. He wasn't leaving – not right now.

Dan's eyes narrowed and he mouthed a silent reply.

"He's  _asleep_."

Even without sound – Phil somehow interpreted the exaggerated annoyance that would have been in Dan's tone.

Phil shook his head again and replied in the same silent fashion.

"I'm not leaving him."

Dan crossed his arms over his chest and glared.

"Move your stubborn ass."

Phil narrowed his eyes at the silent command. He opened his mouth to issue his own silent reply, but Dan stopped him by cutting his hand through the air.

He jabbed a finger towards the ground.

"My infirmary,  _my_  rules. Get your ass out here."

Phil opened his mouth again – fully intending to argue his point. But then he caught sight of the look in Dan's eyes. He threw up his hands and huffed, pushing up from the chair and moving towards the door.

Dan pulled him a few steps away by the elbow. When he spoke, his tone had raised to a low whisper.

"You. My office. NO arguments." He held up his hand when Phil opened his mouth to protest. "You can keep an eye on him from in there. There's a reason I put him in that room, you know." He gestured demonstratively at the clear line of sight from his office window to Clint's door.

Phil raised his hands in surrender.

"Fine."

He motioned with his hand for Dan to lead the way. The doctor retreated into his office and motioned Phil past him to the large couch.

"Sit."

Phil eased himself onto the couch with a sigh and watched Dan close the door and then make sure the blinds on the window were opened fully – allowing them both a clear view to Clint. Phil rolled his neck and let himself sink back farther into the cushions.

"Have you always had this thing in here?"

He knew the couch had been in Dan's office for years – hell, he'd used it a few times – but he was hoping to avoid or at least delay talking about whatever Dan wanted to talk about. He wasn't sure he was ready to dive into that mess yet.

Wilson raised an eyebrow.

"You should know. I swear, every time that kid's been a guest here, you've slept on it." Dan sat down in his chair, eyed Phil warily for a moment, and then opened a desk drawer. A moment later, he withdrew a bottle of Aberlour and two glasses. He poured a generous shot into each glass and then handed one to Phil. Then he kicked his feet up onto the desk and leaned back in his chair.

Phil didn't even consider hesitating. He reached for the glass, lifted it slightly to Dan in salute, and then took a sip. The scotch burned its way down and Phil rested his head back against the cushions. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a drink – much less the last time one had been so fitting.

God, it had been a shitty week. As he took a second sip, he could feel a surge of giddiness – one he didn't think he could completely tie to the alcohol – and he frowned at the doctor.

"Did you drug me again?"

Wilson gave him a mock glare.

"Never let such sacrilege cross your lips. It's  _Aberlour_ , Phil. And not the 10-year stuff, either." Dan mellowed a bit, smiling at Phil. "Relax, it's just scotch. I figured you could use it after the last few days." He took a sip of his own drink and sighed. "I know I could."

Phil tilted his head silently in agreement and took another sip.

Wilson leaned back in the chair, and took a sip himself.

"So…you ready to tell me what's eating at you yet?"

Phil huffed a humorless chuckle and rubbed his eyes with his free hand.

"Would it really matter if I wasn't?"

Wilson looked like he was actually considering the question for a second, then smirked and shook his head.

"C'mon, Phil. Spill." Dan inclined his head towards the couch. "The sooner we get you worked out, the sooner you can get some sleep."

Phil scrubbed his hand back through his hair and rubbed the back of his head.

"Sleep?" he huffed. "What's that?"

Wilson rolled his eyes.

"Something you haven't gotten enough of it the last three days. Quit stalling."

Phil shook his head and looked out the window and beyond – to Clint, who didn't seem to have moved. He closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them again. He spoke without looking back at his friend.

"I was too late."

"Goddamn son of a bitch…" Dan's swearing had Phil looking quickly back at him. And when he did, he could see the shock and absolute disbelief on the man's face. "Too late? _Seriously_ , Phil?"

What Dan didn't know was that Phil would always consider it too late – even if Clint had gotten nothing more than a bruise.

"He was  _dead_."

And in Phil's opinion – that was miles past too damn late.

"Unbelievable." Wilson kicked his feet off of the desk, and stood up suddenly. "You do realize he's living and breathing out there, right? That we didn't bring back a BODY? I'd consider that pretty damned good proof that  _no one_  is dead."

Phil opened his mouth but Dan cut him off.

"And before you say it,  _no_ , dammit, 'was' doesn't matter."

Phil shook his head.

"You don't get it, Dan. You get to sit there and look at this like a doctor – in the black and white of alive or dead.  _I_ don't get that luxury."

This time, Phil got a full view of Dan's jaw dropping. After a moment, Wilson shook his head.

"You think I see this in black and white?" Dan looked stunned, and hurt. " _Trust_  me, I'm don't. Do you want to know what I see? What I  _'get'_?"

Phil clenched his jaw.

"It's not the sa-"

Wilson cut him off.

"Shut up, Phil, and listen for a change. No arguments, no protests, and no getting pissed off at me."

Phil arched an eyebrow – Dan seemed to be telling him to 'shut up and listen' an awful lot lately. He wasn't sure if it was because he was more hard-headed than usual, or if Dan's patience was just worn too thin.

Wilson pulled his chair over to the couch, then plopped down in it facing Phil.

"It's not black and white. Maybe it used to be, but death isn't anymore. I'll save you the lecture on resuscitation medicine for now, but suffice it to say that the line between dead and not dead is nowhere NEAR as black and white as you think it is. Hell, it's more blurred than it's ever been."

Wilson took a pained breath, and then plowed forward.

"So you did CPR. So you had to use the AED. In what universe does that qualify as too late? From what Mueller was able to tell me in Vienna and what you relayed, Barton was down maybe a minute or two, at the MOST. Remember that for a second, and answer me the following question:  _How_  long was your flight from New York to the base?"

Phil blinked, caught off guard by the simplicity of the question.

"Twelve hours."

"How long did it actually take you to get there?"

Phil frowned in confusion.

"To actually get to him? Maybe thirteen."

Wilson shook his head.

"OK, so, 12-13 hours at play here. During which time ANYTHING could've happened. They could've just shot him, you know. Decided he wasn't worth playing around with. Barton's pretty good at pissing people off, and I'm sure he was in rare form with them. What if they  _had_  just shot him? Or strangled him? Electrocuted him with the cattle prod?"

Phil swallowed back a sudden wave of nausea at the thought of any of those possibilities and glared across the short distance between himself and Dan.

"What the hell are you getting at, Wilson?"

"What I'm getting at,  _Coulson_ ," and damned if Dan didn't make his last name sound like an insult, "is that any of those things could've happened, and then you  _would've_  been too late." Dan smacked at the armrest on the chair in frustration. "If they'd done any of that, fine, then you get to tell me you're too late. But you want to know what happened instead?

"They decided to play with him, Phil." The pain in Wilson's voice left no doubt in Coulson's mind what the doctor thought of  _that_  prospect. Hell, Phil could see the bitterness in Wilson's eyes at yet another set of obstacles for Clint to face. "Instead of doing any of that – which would've left you arriving to find a cold, dead body – they decided to try and drown him. I don't know if they panicked when you and Todd broke into the place, or if they somehow thought what they were doing would be permanent, but it  _wasn't_. They left you something YOU. COULD. FIX."

Wilson stabbed a finger at Phil.

"Too late? Out of 12 or 13 hours, when they could've done anything to kill him, they chose to try drowning him in the final minutes before you reached him." Wilson leaned back, his voice cracking with emotion. "Offhand, I'd say you were right on time."

Phil stared at him.

"Maybe you're right." He admitted it quietly and then he continued stronger. "But alive, dead – for a few minutes, or a few hours – before I got there or after… I still lost him. For a few minutes, I LOST HIM. How am I supposed to deal with that?"

"By realizing that you brought him back." Wilson's voice softened. "I'm not saying this shouldn't hurt, or that it's not gonna be new material for the nightmares you two pretend not to have." Phil shot him a frown to which Dan just shrugged. "I'd be lying if I did. But he's alive, and you take that as a win. To hell with it being too close, and to hell with him crossing that threshold. He's here, and you hold onto that. And take pride in the fact that you're responsible for that."

Phil scrubbed his hand over his mouth and looked down at the floor between them. Finally he nodded.

"Take it as a win." He repeated the phrase softly – trying to convince himself that would be enough. It had to be – because sooner or later he'd have to deal with how Clint was handling all of this. And by that point – Phil needed to be ready to be the strong one.

The thought had him looking to the window again.

He sat straight up.

"What the hell?" He started to stand and set down his glass as he watched none other than Natasha Romanoff slide into Clint's room.

Behind him, he heard Wilson climb to his feet, then chuckle.

"Unless you think she's going to go in and do what she didn't in Paris, I'd let it go, Phil." Phil turned around and looked at him, perplexed. "She was in here, right before you, wanting to know how he was."

Phil's eyebrows rose.

"No shit?" he looked back out the window.

Dan nodded.

"No shit. She was waiting for me when I came in, and pretty much point-blank demanded to know what happened." Dan's eyes narrowed. "Fury apparently found it appropriate to tell her he'd been captured, but not that he'd been rescued. If I were to guess, I'd say she's been stewing for the last three days just trying to find out anything."

Phil hummed thoughtfully.

"Fury doesn't do anything without a reason."

Wilson rolled his eyes.

"Fine. He doesn't do anything without a reason. Someone still probably should've told her he was alive. You know, the opposite of dead, Mr. 'I Was Too Late'?"

Phil shot him a glare.

Dan winced.

"Right – too soon." He sat back down in his chair and leaned back. "Drink your scotch, Phil. And then we'll discuss you getting some sleep."

Phil sat back on the couch.

"Fury'll be here soon." He sipped his drink and studiously ignored the mention of sleep. He wanted to – very badly. But he wanted to keep watch over Clint much, much more.

Wilson looked him over, and sighed.

"Fine. But once he's been through here, you're getting some damned sleep. No arguments. You can take the couch if need be, but you're going to get some sleep. I don't need two patients. Barton makes enough work for two anyhow, and you  _know_  the kid'll back me up."

Phil didn't doubt that. Clint had always been better at looking out for Phil than he was at looking out for himself. Though Phil suspected Clint would argue the same was true for him. Phil smiled slightly to himself and finished off the last of his scotch.

Dan gestured for him to hand back the glass, which Phil did.

"Why don't you stretch out for a while?"

Phil shook his head.

"Nice try, but it's not gonna work, Dan. I'll sleep later, okay? I swear. Just not yet."

Not until he'd had a chance to update Fury – and more importantly, check on Clint. He caught movement in the window out of the corner of his eye and turned his head to watch Romanoff leave just as subtly as she'd come.

This time, Dan raised his hands in surrender.

"Fine, but I reserve the right to hand you off to one of the new docs when you show up sick next week."

Phil smirked.

"Fair enough."

* * *

Natasha watched the door to Wilson's office close and shifted from hovering outside the infirmary door to hovering inside of it. Wilson had said Barton was going to be fine – as fine as Barton ever was, anyway. But something in the back of her mind wouldn't let it rest until she saw for herself.

But now that the open door to Barton's room was in sight, she was having trouble making her feet move forward. From what she could see, he was sleeping peacefully. But what worried her was the prospect of him waking up while she was peeking in.

She wasn't quite sure how long she stood in the entry to the infirmary before she swallowed thickly and started towards Barton's door. She slid into the room and quickly backed against the wall, hiding from any prying eyes.

She eyed the archer skeptically, frowning at the lack of color in his skin. His face was a too-pale canvas peppered with blues, blacks, and purples – interrupted only by patches of white gauze covering wounds she couldn't see. She tilted her head curiously as her eyes settled on his right hand. Three of the fingers were fully wrapped. They weren't splinted – that meant they weren't broken.

She shook her head – realizing she wasn't in a position to figure that particular injury out – and continued her scan. There was a sheet and blanket pulled up to his waist, giving her a clear view of the fresh bandages on what she knew to be a bullet hole in his side. It also gave her a clear view of several sets of twin burn marks. She'd seen the handiwork of tasers before – this was similar, but not quite the same.

Then it hit her.

Cattle prod.

She'd seen the handiwork of one of those before too.

She raised her eyes to Barton's face again and winced when he coughed suddenly – the same wet, nasty-sounding cough from before. It carried on for a few moments before tapering off, his breathing eventually easing and returning to normal again.

He'd certainly been through the ringer.

All because he'd made a choice – a choice to save her instead of kill her.

She chewed the inside of her lip, wincing when he shifted, only to have a flicker of pain flash across his face and his left hand to drift to brace his side. He shifted again and his head turned slightly. She froze against the wall, waiting to see if he'd wake.

A moment later, his hand slid back to rest on the bed and the lines of pain on his face smoothed out. She released a breath and pulled away from the wall.

Nobody had ever taken a risk for her before – well, not since that soldier who had saved her from her parents' burning apartment building when she was a baby. Because of that, she was unfamiliar with the feelings of gratitude burning inside her right now. She was unfamiliar with the feeling of indebtedness that accompanied that gratitude.

How was she ever supposed to repay him for this? For taking such a risk? For suffering so much because of that risk?

She didn't know if she would ever be able to pay him back. But she had to try.

She'd lived her entire life by the measure of debts, a life of doing things for others only when something was promised in return. When you owed someone, you repaid that debt or suffered the consequences. For those reasons, she had been very careful in her life to never owe anyone for anything. Rather, she was the one who was owed.

There was a power in that which she had used to aid her in her profession many times.

But now she was the one in debt. She was the one who owed  _him_  for everything he'd done.

"Thank you."

The whispered words slipped off her lips before she'd realized she wanted – needed – to say them. She'd needed to express – at least in some small way – how grateful she was that Clint Barton had looked at her and seen what no one else had ever seen. Had looked at her and believed she could be more.

She hoped that one day she could show Barton – and prove to everyone else – that his faith hadn't been unfounded. She could be better. She  _would_  be.

For the first time in her life – she _wanted_ to be.

And Natasha was used to getting what she wanted. She stepped closer to the bed.

"You aren't wrong about me. I swear to you, you aren't wrong."

She swallowed thickly after finishing her whispered assurance and turned back to the door, sliding out as silently as she'd entered. She'd done what she came to do. She'd seen he was okay – was healing. And she'd started her long road of repaying him for everything he'd done – and suffered through – for her.

* * *

Clint waited until he sensed she was truly gone before opening his eyes. He blew out a breath and carefully turned his head to look at the ceiling.

He hadn't expected to wake up from the pain of a random coughing fit to sense someone who wasn't Phil in the room. It had taken his foggy mind a moment, but he'd been able to place the presence he felt. Natasha Romanoff wasn't a presence you soon forgot.

" _Thank you."_

He hadn't expected the thanks either, but it struck a deep chord in him. And it had affirmed – even before she did so herself –that he hadn't been wrong. There  _was_  something good in her, something fighting its way free of the darkness she'd lived in for so long.

He had no doubt she'd find her way free of that darkness. He had – and she seemed so much stronger than he had ever been.

He smiled slightly, careful of the bruises that pulled on his face. He may have been beat to hell, but it was all turning out all right. As he saw it, what had happened in Uzbekistan was a small price to pay.

He was pulled from his thoughts when movement at the infirmary entrance caught his attention. He turned his head, surprised to see none other than Fury strolling towards him. The set of the director's shoulders was casual, but if Clint looked close enough, he could see lines of worry in the man's face.

Like Clint needed someone _else_  worrying about him. Phil was worrying himself into an early grave. Wilson was more stressed than Clint could remember him being in a while. And Todd – who had disappeared to get the training gym, and the recruits, back under his control – kept looking at him like he was afraid he was going to disappear.

Though if someone Clint knew had died and then been revived, he might look at them funny too.

Clint clenched his jaw, his chest aching painfully. CPR was a bitch.

"Barton – how're you feeling?" Fury asked the question as he came to stand in something loosely resembling parade rest next to Clint's bed.

"Well I'm not dead, so there's that."

Fury looked down momentarily and when he raised his eyes again, Clint couldn't read a thing in his expression. He had completely closed off.

"So they told you?"

Clint scoffed.

"That's not exactly something you keep to yourself."

Phil had been the one to tell him – two days ago in Vienna. He hadn't gone into any detail – just very calmly told Clint he was okay. That he had some extra broken ribs because he'd needed CPR. That he had a tube down his throat because his lungs were weak from being drowned.

But he was okay.

How someone could die and then just be  _okay_  wasn't something Clint had figured out just yet.

He hadn't been able to ask for any more detail at the time – what with the tube down his throat – and Phil hadn't offered any. The tube had since been removed, leaving him with a raw and irritated throat. But Clint had been having trouble staying awake for any long periods of time, and when he was awake, talking was a torturous activity that always led to coughing.

Coughing with broken ribs was not unlike getting them broken over – and over – and  _over_  – again.

"No – I don't suppose it is." Fury gazed heavily at him, something in his eyes treading dangerously close to caring. Clint arched an eyebrow curiously. He knew Fury cared – deep, _deep_  down. That had come to light in Croatia. But he was always very careful not to let it be seen.

Whatever had gone down – with his death and subsequent revival – Fury had to know the details that Clint was currently lacking. It was the only explanation for that look. This had been bad enough – and close enough – to put a scare into Fury.

Clint suddenly wished he knew what the hell had happened.

He opened his mouth – maybe even to ask just that – but was cut off when Wilson's office door suddenly opened. Phil and Wilson stepped out and headed for them, so Clint knew his window to gain new information had closed.

"Director." Phil extended his hand in greeting. Fury shook it firmly and then did the same with Wilson.

"It's good to see everyone back in one piece."

"More or less." Wilson allowed as Phil moved to Clint's side, the handler asking him with his eyes if he was doing okay. Clint almost told him the truth – almost let Phil see all the conflict, confusion, and fear he was battling with. But when he looked closer at the handler, he could see the exhaustion that lined every part of Phil's features. Beyond the physical markers, he could see the strain all of this had taken on him.

Clint could deal for a while longer. He knew eventually he'd need to talk to Phil – to work through all the shit that had happened. But that could wait until Phil had slept.

So instead, he put on his bravest face and gave Phil a smirk that said he was all good.

Phil looked momentarily suspicious, but then nodded.

They both turned their attention to Fury when his cell rang. He pulled it from his pocket and frowned.

"Goddamned Council's up in arms about some off-books rescue mission they didn't find out about until an hour ago." He smirked. "But none of us would know anything about that, would we?"

"No, sir," Phil grinned.

"Sounds like they're pissed I survived." Clint arched an eyebrow. There was no surprise there.

"I'll deal with those assholes. You just focus on getting your ass back into gear. I've got a long list of shit assignments for you to handle while you work your way back into my good graces."

Clint rolled his eyes.

Part of him had hoped nearly dying would earn his way off the shit list – apparently not.

Fury's eyes softened very slightly.

"Feel better, Barton."

Then he was nodding in farewell to Wilson and Phil and was heading out of the infirmary.

"His list of shit assignments better not be anywhere  _near_  as interesting as this one turned out to be," Wilson grumbled. He turned to Clint and Phil. "I've got a mountain of files that isn't getting any smaller, so…" he met Clint's eyes. "Can you please tell your stubborn-assed handler to get some sleep?"

Clint watched Phil send a scathing glare at Wilson, who looked wholly unaffected as he turned and headed back for his office.

"He's right, you know."

Phil turned to face Clint after he spoke – denial written all over his face.

"I'm fine."

"You look  _terrible_  – so do us both a favor and get some sleep."

Phil's eyebrow rose in challenge.

"Don't make me pull out the big guns." Clint threatened with a weary smirk. "I won't sleep till you do."

Phil glared at him and looked away. Then he shook his head and met Clint's eyes again.

"I'm not leaving."

"Last I checked, Wilson kept a ratty-looking couch in his office – and if all else fails, this  _is_  an infirmary. It's just busting at the seams with beds waiting to be slept in." He quirked his lips. "I never said I wanted you to leave."

Phil smiled softly.

"Fine – Dan's couch it is."

Clint smiled tiredly in return.

"What are you waiting for, an invitation? Go get some sleep before I suggest to Wilson that he drug you again."

"Fine!" Phil chuckled and raised his hands in surrender. "You need anything, just have someone come and get me."

Clint nodded and shooed Phil away with his hand. Finally, Phil turned and headed across the infirmary to the office. Clint rested his head back on the pillows and sighed.

Mission accomplished.

Now if only  _he_  felt like he was going to get any sleep. But as exhausted as he was, sleep seemed very far away.

* * *

Clint scratched at the IV catheter in the back of his hand with mild irritation. He sighed, and reached for the bed controls. He'd been trying to get to sleep for more than two hours – but hadn't even managed to doze.

His brain wouldn't shut off – wouldn't let him rest.

At this point, he was beginning to think getting drugged into unconsciousness was his best option for getting some rest. And that wasn't an option he was willing to take just yet. He was  _finally_  beginning to feel coherent for more than a handful of minutes at a time. He wasn't going to give that up just because he was tired.

He dropped his hand with a sigh and glared at the bed control remote – annoyingly just out of reach. No way was he going to stay flat on his back for the rest of the day. He licked his lips and gripped the bedrail with his right hand, wincing as his fingers twinged in pain. He only needed a couple inches and he'd be able to snag the remote.

He swallowed, closed his eyes to mentally prepare himself – and pulled.

"Holy – fucking – mother!" he swore as pain tore through his chest, back, and pretty much every other part of his body. He heard his heart monitor start beeping far too quickly and knew that alone would draw a do-gooding nurse to his room, even if the cursing hadn't already done so.

Sure enough, a small, ebony-haired woman came hurrying in.

"Agent Barton, what happened?"

"What happened is I can't reach the damned controller for the  _damned_  bed."

She moved around the bed and retrieved the controller, holding it out to him.

"If you need something, you need to call for someone. You need to take it easy."

"Take it  _easy_?" Clint nearly growled. "Since when does reaching for the fucking bed controls qualify as intense activity?" He jammed his finger on the controller to start raising the bed.

She gave him a painfully patronizing look that only fanned the fire that had been brewing in him for the past two days. He'd been tortured – apparently  _killed_  – and revived by _someone_. As if that little mystery wasn't enough to set him on edge, he'd had a tube down his throat, had apparently developed the inability to talk without coughing, and had more broken ribs than he'd ever had at one time.

"Agent Barton, you've had a major trauma…"

And then there was  _that_.

"A  _major trauma_?" He latched his hand onto the bed rail when the bed didn't sit him up fast enough. The pain from before was there again, but all it did was fuel him. "Getting shot – _that's_ a major trauma. Getting tortured with a cattle prod – also a major trauma. Getting the fingernails ripped out of my right hand and getting beaten to hell – both major traumas. But let's put aside for a second that all of  _that_  happened too and stop tiptoeing around the real icing on the cake. I fucking died!"

The nurse shrunk back against the wall, eyes wide. He didn't know if it was his words – or his low, dangerous tone – but there was horror in her eyes.

"If you're gonna call that a major trauma, you need to find a new profession."

"Nice, Barton. Though, to be fair, I'm not sure anyone in the medical field has found a good way to tiptoe around that one." Dan Wilson leaned against the door frame, seemingly appearing out of nowhere. He rolled his eyes slightly. "Serene, take a break. I don't want to see you back here for at least a half an hour."

The nurse – Serene, apparently – beat a quick exit after that. Clint followed her the entire way with a glare.

"She's a fucking idiot." He eased back against his pillows – and now raised bed – still glowering.

"Can't argue that one right now." Wilson gave him half a smirk, then sighed. "So what the hell did she say that earned that kind of response?"

"Said I needed to take it  _easy_  – that I'd had a  _major trauma_." Clint made every effort to make his disdain clearly heard.

Wilson shook his head.

"Oh, yes, because clearly, what you went through qualifies for 'super major, absolutely god-awful shit' status." Wilson tried for the humor, hoping to defuse this before it went too far.

Clint's glare darkened – the humor only serving to annoy him. He wasn't in the frame of mind to have his mood brightened.

"Fuck you, Wilson."

"Not my thing, Barton." The reply rolled off Wilson's tongue as easily as if he'd been planning it. "Now, calm your ass down already. I'll talk to her later, OK? Tell the staff not to pussyfoot around you."

"Do what you want. I don't fucking care."

Clint waited, hoping Wilson would leave him alone. Let him stew and glower in peace.

Wilson sighed, and crossed his arms. After seeming to contemplate about a dozen things to say to him, the man finally reached out and leaned against the railing to the bed.

"Yeah, you do. You're practically begging for someone to sit up and take notice of you right now, kid."

Clint's mouth opened to snap back a reply, but Wilson waved him off.

"It's true, so don't argue with me. So why don't you just tell me what you want?" There was nothing but honesty in his tone – no condescension, no assumptions. Just an honest plea for Clint to be honest in return.

Clint looked down at his hands – his left was fiddling uselessly with the blanket over his legs, and his right was resting on his lap, the white bandages seeming too white on his tanned hands. He shook his head.

Wilson wanted to know what he wanted? He wanted a lot of things. He wanted to stop ending up in the infirmary. He wanted the important people in his life to understand why he'd made the choice about Romanoff. He wanted to get out of this bed and go where no one would find him, where no one could bother him. He wanted to fire his  _bow_.

But there was also one other thing he wanted, something Wilson might actually be able to give him.

"I want to know what happened."

Wilson stared at him, then cocked his head to the side, apparently confused.

"What …" Wilson shook his head. "Last time I checked, Phil had told you."

Clint rolled his eyes in annoyance.

"Phil told me I'd needed CPR – that I had the tube because I'd drowned. He didn't really go into detail while I was going in and out of consciousness."

Wilson sighed.

"Shit, kid. Just what do you remember?"

Clint shrugged, looking down at his hands again.

"Pain – being confused out of my goddamned mind." He shook his head. "I don't have a clear memory of anything until after I woke up in Vienna."

Wilson nodded.

"So, in other words, you remember pretty much jack shit about what happened in the warehouse."

"Don't get me wrong." Clint smirked darkly. "I remember getting tortured  _very_  clearly – but after a point…" Clint waved his hand vaguely. "It's just…blank."

Wilson pulled the chair over, turned it backwards, then straddled it – sitting down so he was leaning forward against the chair back.

"I'm sorry. It should've occurred to someone – me, if no one else – that you didn't remember what happened. It happens with shit like this." Wilson paused. "Look, do you want me to get Phil in here? He might be able to help fill in the gaps a little better."

Clint could tell by the doctor's tone that he would – in a second – go get Phil for him if that's what he wanted.

And it was.

He wanted Phil to make everything make sense – something the man was uncannily good at. He wanted Phil to tell him everything was okay now – that  _they_  were okay now. He wanted Phil to sit in that uncomfortable plastic chair so that Clint could finally sleep – because there was no doubt in his mind that with Phil there, rest would come easy.

But he shook his head negatively.

Phil was finally getting some much needed – and well-deserved – rest. If that was the only thing he could give the man right now, he'd give it. No matter what  _Clint_  wanted.

"Okay, then." Wilson looked distinctively wary, but cooperative. "Tell me where you want me to start."

Clint started to throw up his hands in frustration – only to bite back a gasp of pain at the movement.

" _Anywhere_! The middle – the end – the beginning.  _Any_  information would be more than I have right now. When did I actually 'die?' Who revived me? How long was I gone? Was I already in Vienna when –" he cut off abruptly when a harsh cough tore free, followed quickly by a series of others.

Wilson was out of the chair in a second, pulling the oxygen mask over to the bed.

Clint waved his hand to stop him, and coughed a couple more times before dragging in a deep breath – followed by another. Then it was just a waiting game as Clint forced his breathing back under control.

Wilson sighed, but still put the mask on the bed next to Clint.

"You need that, you use it. Got it?"

"Yeah, yeah," Clint cleared his throat and waved his hand impatiently. "I'm not a rookie to this shit."

Wilson settled back in the chair, but scoffed as he did.

"Oh, really? When have you drowned before? Was there something we missed in your history that required CPR? If there is, you and I need to have a serious conversation."

Clint frowned – annoyance and frustration bleeding into his expression.

"Shit that happened before SHIELD is none of you damned business, Wilson. So cut to the damned chase already, and tell me what happened!"

Wilson rolled his eyes and his face hardened in frustration.

"Fine. You want me to cut the shit? Phil and Todd went off books to go after you. There was supposed to be a tac team coming out of Afghanistan, but they got shot down two kilometers from that hellhole." It wasn't anger in Wilson's voice, but the intensity bled in every word. "So Phil and Todd flew the rest of the way in, 10 hours with absolutely no idea what was happening to you."

Clint's eyes went wide and he paled a few shades. He opened his mouth to try and speak, but Wilson slashed his hand through the air – telling him without words to keep his mouth shut.

"When they got there, they had to fight their way in. Next thing I know, Phil's on the phone with me, and I'm walking him through resuscitation protocol." Wilson's voice cracked, and when he continued, the volume had dropped to almost a whisper. "God, kid … do you have any idea what that was like?"

Wilson leveled a stare on him, his face twisted with emotion.

"Twelve-plus hours not knowing a single damned thing." Clint could hear the fear in Wilson's voice now. "Every single base went on lockdown when the Afghan tac team crashed. Phil and Todd kept going, Fury covered their asses. And then they got there – with just enough time to spare. They – hell,  _we_  – came very close to losing you. Too damned close. Another couple of minutes, we probably would have. And Phil got the task of reviving you, with the rest of us just standing by, praying your stubbornness would hold true.

"Add in the fact that this was supposed to be a shit assignment, and no one saw this coming. Not me, not Fury, not Bryan – and definitely not Phil."

Wilson's tone wasn't angry. In fact, the man sounded damned close to tears.

Clint felt what little color he had left drain from his face.

It had been  _Phil_.

His stomach turned violently and he suddenly felt as if he were going to be sick. He swallowed thickly in an attempt to stave off the nausea.

 _Phil_ had been forced to do CPR – to revive him. He knew – from Phil himself – that  _that_  was the man's worst nightmare. His stomach turned again and he fought the urge to spring from his bed – to find Phil and apologize more fiercely than he ever had before.

Phil never should have had to deal with that – to be put through that.

Then there was Todd – no  _wonder_ the man kept looking at him with that odd mixture of fear and pain. The man had  _been_ there.

And  _Wilson_.

He raised his eyes suddenly to the doctor – whose gaze was growing more concerned by the moment. Wilson  _hadn't_  been there. For a doctor – a man who was used to acting, to saving, to being able to  _do_  something to help people – it had to have been torturous to be stuck on the other end of the phone line, with no way to help but his words.

Maybe he couldn't apologize to Phil yet, but he could apologize to Wilson.

"I'm sorry." He whispered the words so quietly that he almost didn't hear them himself.

That got him, of all things, a quiet chuckle.

"Seriously, Barton? Why the hell are you apologizing?" Wilson leaned forward, scrubbing a hand through his hair. When he continued, his voice had calmed somewhat. "I shouldn't have dumped it all out like that, but it's been a hell of a couple of days for everyone." The doctor stopped, seeming to contemplate something. "Do you remember any of the flight from Uzbekistan to Vienna? Or when you got there?"

Clint shook his head.

"No."

He clenched his hands in frustration, ignoring the pain that blossomed in his right fingers. He wished he could remember  _anything_  about what happened – anything beyond the pain and confusion.

"I  _told_  you I don't remember anything until after I woke up two days ago."

He knew his frustration bled into his tone – knew Wilson didn't deserve it. But right now, he didn't care.

A second later, Wilson was at the bedside, reaching across the bed and gently uncurling his fingers from the blanket.

"Knock that off, Barton. You need more pain right now like you need a hole in the head. And don't think I haven't noticed how close you were to puking a minute ago." Wilson sighed, sounding every bit as weary as he looked. "I'll take it from the top, then. You remember being on the vent? Well, that was after you almost stopped breathing on that six-hour flight from Uzbekistan to Vienna. Todd and Phil were forced there because Afghanistan more or less went on protest when their tac team went down. Never mind that it was Fury who ordered them in there, or that the Council didn't shut anything down until AFTER they'd crashed."

Clint felt his stomach roll again at the mention of the Afghan team – a team that had died trying to get to him. Something they never should have been doing, Fury's orders or not.

"They never should have been there."

"Wait a minute – who?"

"Who?" Clint scoffed. "The team of  _dead_  SHIELD agents. Rescues are against protocol. Now, Phil? Phil I can see tossing that to the wind, no problem – but that team never should have been sent."

Wilson snorted.

"Since when have you ever given a damn about protocol, Barton? Or is there some  _other_  Phil Coulson who vents about  _another_  Clint Barton who never follows them?"

"I give a damn when it gets other people killed."

Wilson looked at him for a long moment, confusion and frustration clouding the man's face.

When he finally spoke, the man's voice was level – but just barely.

"You think you're the only one willing to step in front of a bullet, Barton? Willing to lay down his life to save that of a friend?" There was a dangerous glint in Wilson's eyes now, something Clint had rarely seen. "Seriously, that's what you're going to go with?"

Clint's own eyes darkened. He wasn't that arrogant.

"Of course not," he shot back. "But those agents – they weren't my friends. They didn't know me."

Wilson scoffed.

"You're a SHIELD AGENT, Barton. They didn't need to know you." Wilson shook his head. "The risk comes with the job."

"I never asked anyone to take that risk  _for me_."

"You didn't have to!" Wilson struggled to keep his voice from rising. "Not them – not any of us! Lukas – Dr. Brunner – was ready to hop on a jet before the Vienna director locked everyone down, literally to the rooms they were in. From what I understand, some of the medical staff over there almost mutinied anyhow."

Wilson pointed a finger at him.

"You can _not_ tell me that you wouldn't have done the exact same thing if someone's life was on the line – whether you knew them or not. Hell, you would've been the first person in line to lead the goddamned rescue."

Clint looked away and didn't reply. He heard Wilson hiss a sigh through his teeth.

"You know, I think I know where this is going, Barton, and if you didn't listen when Phil said it after Croatia, then you're sure as hell not gonna listen to me." Wilson paused to let the words sink in, then continued. "And right now, you're barely three days out from a maj – being DEAD. I'm going to front desk, and getting you a sedative. And you're going to get some damned sleep."

He'd worn Wilson's patience thin – that was obvious in the man's tone. But beyond that frustration was just sadness. Clint sighed. Wilson was right – he needed sleep. The lack of it was making everything seem a shade worse than it probably was. But he didn't want to go back to everything being nothing but a haze.

"I don't want fucking drugs, Wilson. I can finally think straight for the first time in days."

Wilson rolled his eyes.

"You ever stop to consider that was a side effect of what you'd been through, not the drugs, Barton?" Wilson softened his tone. "This is me, kid. I'm not gonna hit you with anything hard. I just want you to get some rest. You know damned well you need it."

Clint deflated – dropping his head back against his pillows and closing his eyes. He clenched his jaw for a moment and swallowed, but then he nodded.

Wilson took that as an invitation.

"Hold two."

Clint forced his eyes open as he heard the doctor move away. He was so fucking tired. Tired of hurting. Tired of talking. Tired of thinking about what had happened – about the torture, about the team that had died. He was tired of trying to deal with all of this shit while Phil was in another room.

He forced his head forward when Wilson returned with a pill and a glass of water.

"Here." Wilson handed him the small paper cup. "It's Alprazolam. The dose should be just enough to take the edge off and help you sleep. I'm not even going to force a painkiller on you, OK?"

Clint nodded and threw back the pill without complaint, chasing it with the water. He handed the cup back to Wilson and let his head fall back against the pillows again.

Wilson reached for bed controls, adjusting it so Clint wasn't fully sitting up – but not completely reclined either. Then he put the control right next to Clint's hand.

"That way you don't have to wrench everything to reach it next time." Wilson smiled slightly, then grew sober. "I'm going to let both you and Phil sleep. But I really think you need to talk to him when you wake up. For both your sakes. I think he needs it just as much as you do."

Clint stared at him for a moment – and then swallowed. Wilson had hit right what Clint was thinking – he needed Phil.

He nodded slowly.

Wilson tilted his head towards the chair.

"You mind if I stay for a bit?"

Clint shifted lower on his pillows – wincing deeply before settling and blowing out a breath.

"Whatever."

* * *

Settling down into the chair, Dan tried to keep from heaving a sigh. Not for the first time in the last 10 minutes, he wondered if he'd done the right thing by telling Barton the complete truth. The kid might've demanded it, but it didn't mean he was necessarily ready to hear it. Sometimes, he really had no clue how to handle Barton.

Not that that was especially unusual. About the only person who really had a handle on Barton was Phil. Everyone knew that – and normally, didn't try to get in the middle of it. Dan had waded in hip-deep this time, though, because Barton had asked him – hell, practically  _begged_  him – for the truth. So be it.

Dan watched as Barton shifted a little, finally finding a position that looked to, at least, cause no active pain. He was just damned glad the kid hadn't told him to get the fuck out, because right now, Dan needed to be in here. Not for Clint's sake, not for Phil's, but for his own. He needed to see with his own eyes that this whole clusterfuck of a situation hadn't gone anywhere near as wrong as it could have. He needed to see Barton – alive and breathing – as much as the kid needed anyone to watch over him right now. Whatever came down the pipeline, it would be worth it – because they were in the infirmary, and not in the morgue.

He waited until he saw Barton's breathing even out, and then a few minutes beyond that. Finally, he forced himself to his feet and headed for the door. But before he stepped out, he said something – not that he expected to be heard, but ...

"Trust us, kid. You're worth the effort. Every single damned time."

* * *

End of Chapter 15

Whew - that was a long one! ;D the next one is long too because come one people, you know I can't do a final chapter without making it the longest of the story lol (those of you new to my work will learn that if you read anymore of my stuff :D)

I feel a little bad for Dan, poor guy tried his best but Clint is just...well he's Clint...and he's being a crabby little fellow at the moment (though who could blame him) Hopefully Phil can straighten the kid out next chapter...we'll see :D *cackles evilly because only I and Kylen know how this will play out*

Ahem...sorry 'bout that :D I'm not usually prone to evil cackling...

Here's your final preview!

* * *

_His gaze was so heavy she imagined she could feel its weight – could feel it seeing deep into her soul. It took everything she had not to look away._

_"Because you should know the man you tried to kill." If possible, his expression grew more intense. "And the man I would have died to protect."_


	16. Say It If It's Worth Savin' Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Avengers or any of the characters affiliated with them. If I did, there would totally be a Hawkeye/Black Widow movie in the works.
> 
> Special thanks to my two translators for this story writtergirl15 and Timaios
> 
> And biggest thanks to Kylen my beta, who is a big part of why this story came together like it did. She pushes me to be better every time I sit down at my keyboard. She's helped me grow as a writer in MANY ways. Not to mention that she practically adopted Dan lol. And even though I was Dan's headspace in this chapter, she was his voice in the conversation he has here at the beginning :)
> 
> The song that inspired the chapter titles for this story was "Savin' Me" by Nickleback :)
> 
> Now, let's get going because I'm sure you're all anxious to get to the final chapter :) So here's the conclusion of What No One Else Sees...

  
_As we express our gratitude, we must never forget that the highest appreciation is not to utter words, but to live by them.  
_ _**John F. Kennedy** _   


* * *

Dan blinked rapidly, trying to clear the blurriness that seemed to have settled over his vision. He was  _so_ goddamned tired. The words on the chart he was looking over kept bleeding together into indecipherable gibberish. It was truly fascinating how far behind you could fall on paperwork in just  _three damn days._

He sighed and reached for his coffee taking a quick sip – only to spit it back into the cup with a gag a moment later. He turned in his chair to face his coffee machine. Within minutes – using a water bottle from his fridge – he had a fresh batch brewing.

Content for the moment, he turned back and stared miserably down at the charts spread out on his desk. He decided abruptly they could wait a few minutes – the fact that he'd taken a break five minutes ago to check on Barton was neither here nor there.

This time he glanced at Phil – the man was still sleeping deeply, sprawled on his back on the couch. Honestly, Dan was surprised the man's full body shape wasn't permanently imprinted in the leather. The man spent more time sleeping there than Dan did – at least that's how it seemed at times. Times like now – when Barton was laid up in 'his' room across the hall – it was hard to get Phil to leave the infirmary wing at all when his charge couldn't.

With a deep sigh, Dan turned back to his charts and tried his best to focus on the words – to keep them from blurring dizzyingly.

He really needed to get some sleep at some point.

And  _he_ had lectured Phil…

He wasn't sure how long he stared at the chart without actually comprehending a word of it before he heard his coffee pot switch off.

_There is a God…_

He spun in his chair and greedily poured the fresh brew into one of the half a dozen coffee cups he kept on hand. He peeked over his shoulder at Phil and then glanced at his watch. Nodding to himself, he poured a second cup and turned back to his desk.

Sure enough, less than three minutes later, Phil started to stir. Dan kept his expression carefully neutral, kept his eyes on the chart, and held out the second cup of coffee.

* * *

Phil blinked blurrily, a familiar smell invading his senses. His eyes finally focused and he stared in confusion at the bright yellow coffee mug hovering in front of his face – a morbid looking smiley face was painted on it, with 'x' eyes and a zig-zag line for a mouth. Phil knew that mug – knew the other side said "#2 Doc" in big letters. It had been a gift from Clint to Dan a few months ago – when Clint had had too much time on his hands while recovering from Croatia and discovered online shopping.

"Is that coffee?" Phil couldn't keep the hopefulness out of his tone as he sat up fully.

Dan chuckled.

"Fresh, even."

"Wow – that's rare around you. Now I feel special."

Phil accepted the mug with a smirk and glanced towards the window, eyes settling on Clint, who seemed to be asleep.

Dan sighed.

"I've been up for close to 24 hours, and you took my couch. It was either coffee or drugs."

Phil eyed him with sudden intensity.

"You  _do_  look like shit. Why the hell haven't you gotten any sleep? I have it on good authority that this place has plenty of beds waiting to be slept in."

Dan rolled his eyes.

"Because someone needed to keep an eye on Barton, and since he took the head off one of my nurses, I figured it'd better be me." Dan sighed. "And before you ask, yeah, you need to talk to him."

Phil lowered his coffee mug, posture suddenly straightening, and all vestiges of relaxation from sleep fading away.

"Took the head off…what the hell happened?"

Phil started to stand, but Dan motioned for him sit back down.

"Sit down. He's still asleep. At least, he was five minutes ago." Dan ran a hand through his hair. "And the nurse tried to tell him he'd been through a 'major trauma.'" Dan air-quoted the words. "I'm sure you can guess how  _that_  went over."

Phil slowly sat back down on the couch, rubbing his free hand across his face.

"Knowing Clint and his usual coping mechanisms…I'm guessing not well." He sighed. "Do I need to do some damage control?"

Dan snorted.

"Are you kidding me? That nurse needed a little common sense hammered through her skull. We've talked, she's learned euphemisms aren't a good idea around Barton." Dan grew suddenly serious. "But Phil, there's a bigger problem."

Phil frowned.

"What is it? Is he okay?" Phil started to stand again, eyes going to the window.

"Would you just  _sit_?" Dan sighed. "He's fine, physically – or at least he will be. But, Phil ... he asked me what happened. Apparently, there was stuff he didn't know, stuff no one bothered to fill him in on." Dan's face grew distinctively guilty. "Look, I'm sorry, I honestly thought you'd told him more than you obviously did."

Phil's frown deepened.

"Jesus, Dan – he's barely been coherent. When was I supposed to tell him anything?"

He sighed and rubbed his face, abandoning his coffee onto Dan's desk. He knew how persistent Clint could be when he wanted something – knew the kid would always find a way to get whatever it was. He couldn't really blame Dan for spilling the details.

"What exactly did you tell him?"

Dan blew air out through his teeth.

"For starters? That the initial rescue got shot down just short of the base. Then that you were the one who brought him back." Dan picked up his own coffee mug, and gulped down a long sip. "I don't know which bothered him more."

Phil dropped his head into his hands and blew out a slow, calming breath. He'd been planning on sitting Clint down and explaining everything very carefully – to monitor how Clint took each piece of information and adjust his strategy accordingly.

Now all he could do was try to figure out what state Clint was going to be in – and figure out how to pull him out of it.

"How did he take it?"

Dan raised an eyebrow.

"You think I'd be sitting here kicking myself if the answer was anything but ' _bad?_ ' For what it's worth, I offered to get you before I even started. He told me not to, and knowing how beat you were, I took him at his word. Not real thrilled with the results, obviously."

Phil scrubbed his hands back through his hair. Clint had probably been thinking the same thing, trying to look out for Phil instead of himself. He shook his head and looked up at Dan again.

"It's not your fault. When Clint sets his mind to something, he usually gets it." He glanced out the window to where Clint lay sleeping. "How long ago did you sedate him?" Because he sincerely doubted Clint had been able to sleep on his own if he was as worked up as Dan was insinuating.

"A couple hours after you were down for the count, so about eight hours." Dan sighed. "He didn't really even fight me on it, Phil. ANYONE else, I'd be calling psych down here, but that'd be an even bigger disaster."

Phil nodded. He was more than familiar with Clint's emotional issues. He'd been dealing with them – and helping Clint learn to deal with them – since they met.

"What am I dealing with?"

"The usual, I think. He's pissed off that someone died for him. I don't think it crossed his mind that people who didn't know him would be willing to do that. Never mind that he'd do the same in a heartbeat." Dan shrugged. "Other than that? He's tired, he's hurting and he almost DIED. Add the fact that it was you that brought him back ..." Dan looked up at Phil. "Color me confused, but I would've thought there'd be about three people he'd trust in that situation, that he'd want there with his life on the line." Dan grinned humorlessly. "If I'm lucky, I'm the one of them."

Phil chewed the inside of his lip and looked away. He knew Clint. He knew that the kid probably hadn't been thinking about who he trusted – who he'd  _want_  – to be the one reviving him. If he knew his agent, all Clint had been thinking about was Phil and about what it had done to  _him_. The kid could be unreasonably selfless like that.

"He trusts you, Dan." Phil pointed out quietly. "He may not always show it, but he does. Trusts Todd too, and even Fury sometimes. But I don't think this was about that."

Dan closed his eyes and leaned back in his chair, the truth apparently dawning on him.

"Aww, shit." The doctor slowly opened his eyes, Phil saw sympathy warring with guilt. "Your nightmare – or his?"

"Mine, more or less. Something he didn't find out about until Paris."

"Great." Dan carded his fingers through his hair again. "One of these days, I'm really gonna have to remember nothing is EVER simple with that kid."

Phil nodded. That was the story of his life. Nothing was ever the easy way with Clint. But that's what kept things interesting.

"How much longer will he be out?"

This time when Phil stood, Dan didn't try to stop him.

"Actually a little surprised he's not awake already." Dan sighed. "Then again, maybe I'm not. He's been through a hell of a lot over the last couple of days."

Phil huffed a humorless laugh. That may have been the understatement of the century. He retrieved his coffee cup and moved towards the office door.

"I should be there when he comes around again."

"Yeah, you should." Dan gestured at the coffee in the corner. "Take an extra cup with you, though. I know he lives on the stuff as much as you do." Dan tilted his head thoughtfully. "Then again…" he turned and reached back into the small refrigerator he kept in his office. A second later, he turned back, holding up a bottle of blue Gatorade in weary triumph.

He tossed it to Phil.

"Call it a peace offering."

Phil caught it and pulled the door open. He looked across the infirmary to Clint and then turned back to his friend.

"You look like shit, Dan. The stuff with Clint…" Phil sighed. "I've screwed up worse than that with him several times in the past three years – hell, in the past three weeks. Don't beat yourself up. He hasn't snuck out. He let you sedate him. Let yourself off the hook, take your own advice, and get some goddamned sleep."

Dan sighed, pushed himself out of the chair and aimed for the couch.

"Fine. I know when I'm beat." As he stretched out, though, he tossed out a final comment. "He's going to fine, Phil. Make sure he knows that."

Phil slid out the door and smirked as he heard Dan mumble one final comment under his breath.

"He's fine. You're fine. I'm fine…we're  _all_  fine."

* * *

Phil crossed the infirmary silently and stepped into Clint's room. He set the blue Gatorade on the bed table and took a moment to look Clint over, reassuring himself that the kid really _was_  okay. He was breathing deeply and evenly, his expression relaxed in a way it only ever was with drugs and unconsciousness – and death, as Phil had painfully learned.

The swelling from the beating he'd taken had started to fade, leaving his face looking a little less grotesque than it had when Phil had found him. The bruising was still there – a stark reminder that they weren't all that far removed from what had happened.

Phil eased himself down in the plastic chair and sipped his coffee.

All he could do was wait. Clint would come around in his own time, according to his own timetable. He always did. He really must have been exhausted to still be down. Clint had a curious habit of coming out of sedation earlier than he should.

In the end he didn't have to wait long. Whether he sensed another presence in the room or he smelled the coffee, Clint woke suddenly – head turning and eyes focusing on Phil with unerring accuracy.

"Hey," Phil greeted simply, warmly.

Clint blinked slowly and swallowed.

"Hey."

For a moment they just stared at each other. Then Clint raised his hand, rested it on the bedrail and pointed at the Gatorade.

"That for me?"

"A peace offering from Dan." Phil stood and retrieved the drink while Clint used the controls to raise his bed. Phil unscrewed the cap and handed the drink to Clint then busied himself adjusting Clint's pillows while the archer drank his fill.

Then he took the drink back, set it back on the bed table and nudged the table until the drink was within Clint's reach.

"So…" Phil sat back down and fixed Clint with as open a gaze as he could muster. "Where do you want to start?"

Clint – hand resting on the bedrail again – absently pushed the table away and the pulled it back a few times. He didn't say anything for a long time and Phil just waited. Getting Clint to talk – even when the archer  _knew_ he needed to – was like drawing water from a stone. Phil knew he couldn't force it – but he could just be here, be a constant presence. When Clint was ready, he'd talk.

Finally, Clint sighed and nudged the Gatorade with his finger.

"I'm not mad at him." Clint glanced towards Dan's office. "He doesn't need a peace offering."

Phil nodded. He'd figured as much – Clint wasn't usually one to hold onto things.

"He'll be glad to hear that."

Clint nodded and scratched absently at the edge of the bandage on his right cheekbone, his eyes focused on some spot on his blanket.

Phil waited.

"You didn't tell me." Clint spoke quietly and looked up at Phil through his lashes – there was a mixture of emotions showing in his eyes. Foremost was accusation and frustration, but lingering behind it was a heavy dose of worry – worry for Phil. "You didn't tell me it was  _you_."

Phil sighed. So much for starting with the easy stuff – though Phil was sure none of this conversation would be easy.

"No, I didn't. But not because I wasn't going to." Phil rubbed his hand over his jaw. "You were so out of it when you finally came around – and you've been more asleep than awake the past couple days. I just haven't had a chance to tell you everything."

Clint nodded, looking back down at his blanket.

"I can tell you now though," Phil offered.

"Wilson told me." Clint informed him, a slight frown creasing his features before smoothing away as if it had never been there.

"I know." Phil waited until Clint looked at him. "If you want  _me_  to tell you, I'll tell you."

Because Phil knew this part of the conversation wasn't about Clint – it was about Phil. Clint wanted to deal with what Phil was going through. Whether that was because he wanted to avoid what  _he_ was going through or because he was being his usual self and thinking of Phil first, was unclear. Either way, Phil knew they'd have to deal with this part eventually. Now was as good a time as any.

He watched the meaning of his offer sink in – watched Clint's eyes widen a fraction in surprise that Phil was volunteering so easily to tell his side of the events that had unfolded in the past few days. But Phil had decided, the night before the gala, when Clint had called him to the mat for holding back on him, that he was going to do his best to stop treating Clint like the lost, sad eighteen year old he had been when Phil found him.

Clint had grown into a man when he wasn't looking – a strong, capable man that could handle seeing the chinks in Phil's armor. Maybe Clint needed to see those chinks so he wouldn't have to be so ashamed of his own.

Clint nodded slowly, still appearing surprised Phil was going to lay it out for him. Phil granted him a small smile.

"I can learn a lesson too, kid. I promised you no more holding back. Are you sure you're ready for that?"

Clint nodded again, more confidently this time.

"I can handle it, Phil."

Phil nodded. He'd come to learn Clint could handle a hell of a lot more than anyone had a right to. He chewed his lower lip and considered for a moment where he wanted to start. When he began, he held Clint's gaze with his own and very purposefully kept his expression open, letting Clint see past the walls he usually kept in place.

"The second I heard your voice on that call, I knew something had gone wrong and everything inside me just froze."  _In fear_.

Phil swallowed thickly, the memory of those seconds when he realized Clint was in trouble still struck a chord of panic in him. "I had sent you there. It wasn't supposed to be anything but surveillance. I never even considered it could go sideways like this. But when it did – I didn't hesitate. I geared up and hopped a jet – to hell with protocol. All I could think about was getting you back."

Phil felt emotion swell as he remembered running around the base, getting gear and finding Todd, all the while praying he wasn't running out of time – that it wasn't too late already.

"You need to know there was no way I  _wasn't_  coming for you." He gave Clint a hard look. "You  _know_  that, right?"

Clint's jaw clenched, causing the muscles in it to twitch, his eyes flashed with some memory, but the flash was gone before Phil could decipher it. The archer nodded confidently.

"I  _knew_  you were coming. I knew you wouldn't stop until you found me. I just had to keep fighting till you got there."

Phil felt warmth rise in him. The confidence in Clint's words was palpable. Even after everything, Clint had never doubted him.

Phil's stomach dropped suddenly. Clint had never doubted  _him_  – but all he'd done since this mess with Romanoff had started was doubt Clint.

"How long was I there?" Clint asked suddenly, pulling Phil back from his startling realization. "I lost a lot of time." He admitted the last part quietly, absently scratching at the bandage on his cheek again.

"13 hours and 17 minutes."

Clint blinked, no doubt surprised by the specificity of the answer.

But Phil knew because he had spent  _every moment_  of that in fear – fear that he was going to be too late.

"That was the longest flight of my life, kid." Phil admitted with a sigh. He rubbed his free hand through his hair. "I knew – somewhere in my gut – that you were running out of time and everything was just taking too damn long. So we landed closer than we probably should have and we went in fast. At first, we were able to go quiet, but one of the guards tripped an alarm…" Phil watched Clint's eyes grow reflective, as if he were remembering something. "Do you remember that – the alarm?"

Clint frowned.

"I think so…but it all gets kind of blurred."

Phil nodded. He had a feeling a lot of what Clint remembered was just a blur.

"We got lucky. I saw a hose running down the hall and my gut said to follow it – that you were at the other end of it. And you were."

_The hose was still running, creating a river towards the drain on the back wall. There was a metal chair – tipped over on its side. A man was still secured tightly to it, but there was a bag over his head. He wasn't moving – hadn't even reacted to the chaos around them._

_Maybe it wasn't Clint. Clint would never be that still._

_But then he saw something on the man's left shoulder – a scar, fresh and pink, long and thick from surgery. Phil knew that scar better than he knew the scars on his own body. That was the scar made by the bullet that almost took everything from him._

_Clint._

"Phil?"

Phil blinked, focusing again on Clint, who was watching him with a concerned light to his eyes.

"You okay?"

Phil almost lied – almost 'protected' Clint from what finding him like that had done to him. But then something Clint had said to him, the night before the gala flashed through his mind

" _You've been telling me for years now that I'm not alone anymore – that I don't have to carry all my shit by myself...that goes both ways."_

And he realized he couldn't hold back – not anymore. No matter how hard it was going to be to be open and honest about it, no matter how much it went against the grain of his personality – Clint deserved that honesty. Just like  _he_  deserved – and demanded on occasion – the same honesty from Clint.

So he swallowed thickly.

"When I came into the room, you were on the floor – tied to a chair with a bag over your head." Phil tightened his hands around his coffee mug. "I convinced myself – just for a second – that it wasn't you. That it couldn't be  _you_..." Phil felt a lump lodge in his throat and his eyes started to sting. "But then I saw the scar on your shoulder and I  _knew._ "

Phil shook his head and had to look away, just to give him a moment to pull himself together. It hurt just as badly now as it had then – the fear was just as real now as it had been then. And the anger – the unbearable urge to go kill every one of those bastards – came back just as strongly.

"It wasn't until I pulled you from the chair and got the bag off that I realized you weren't breathing." He cleared his throat against the sudden waver in his voice and latched onto the anger – using it to make his voice strong again. "That you didn't have a pulse."

Phil blinked away moisture that was pooling in his eyes in spite of the anger – or maybe because of it – and forced himself to meet Clint's stormy gaze again.

"I've never felt fear like that."

And he hoped he never felt it again.

Clint's expression had gone deadly serious, almost blank, but his eyes told Phil the story of what the archer was thinking. The kid was pissed, scared, sympathetic, and worrying all at once – each emotion warring to be at the forefront. When he spoke, there was a forced levelness to his tone.

"Not even in Cairo?"

Phil sighed.

"Cairo was different. I didn't have a chance to do anything then, didn't have a chance to help you, to save you. I didn't even have a chance to be afraid. You were just gone, or at least I believed you were. But this time," Phil shook his head, "I had been  _right_ there. And I had been too  _late_." Phil had to stop for a moment when his voice broke. He saw Clint shift out of the corner of his eye.

"But you weren't too late – I'm still here. You brought me back." Clint reminded quietly, pulling Phil back to the present.

Wasn't that what Dan had told him?

" _Too late? Out of 12 or 13 hours, when they could've done anything to kill him, they chose to try drowning him in the final minutes before you reached him. Offhand, I'd say you were right on time."_

It had still been too damn close.

"Training kicked in," Phil admitted. "I started CPR and called Dan while Todd covered my six. I had to force myself to just focus on the compressions – to  _not_ think about it being you I was doing them on."

It had been a nearly impossible task.

"After that, it was standard AED procedure and all I could do was beg anyone who was listening for it to be enough. For it to give you the foothold you needed to fight your way back." Phil smiled proudly around the echos of fear he still felt. "And you did – you fought, just like you always have, and you made it back."

Clint's eyes grew deeply contemplative and Phil knew he was probably straining to remember  _anything_ from that period of time.

"I'm guessing you don't remember any of what happened after?"

Clint shook his head negatively. Phil nodded. He'd expected as much.

"I told you I forgave you." Phil told him quietly, remembering fiercely whispering those words to the archer. He watched Clint's breath catch and knew, without a doubt, that Clint didn't remember  _any_  of the half dozen times he'd repeated that over the last two and half days. "I told you that we were  _okay_."

Clint's eyes widened and Phil saw moisture well in them before it was quickly blinked away.

"I knew in my head that you wouldn't remember, but I needed you to know – even if it was only in that moment – that none of the shit that had happened mattered. That we were all good again. And we are."

Clint swallowed thickly and searched his gaze intently.

"Really?"

It was such a hopeful question – and Clint sounded like he was afraid to believe it might be true.

"Really." Phil assured.

He watched as an almost visible weight lifted from Clint's gaze, watched the relief wash through his eyes. He waited until Clint nodded that he understood before going on.

"After that, we got you back to the jet and headed for Vienna. Dan said he told you about what went down in Afghanistan?"

Clint nodded – something close to guilt, but at the same time  _not_  – flashing through his gaze. Phil filed that to address later.

"You gave me a scare on the flight, but you didn't give up. You kept fighting and Dr. Brunner and a team were waiting for us when we landed. After that, it was almost easy."

Phil gave Clint a moment to digest everything he'd just told him. The archer surprised him by clearing his throat suddenly and speaking.

"Are you okay?"

Phil huffed a weary, sad laugh.

"How the hell could I be? After that?" He met Clint's eyes. "I'll get there. I'm working my way towards it even now – but I've never been so afraid in my life, Clint. I almost lost you, kid..." Phil had to swallow the sudden lump in his throat. "And I can't do that. I can't lose you. So you always have to fight, okay? No matter what happens, you always fight, understood?"

It was suddenly the most important thing in the world that Clint promised him that. That he promised he would always fight – if not for his own sake, then for Phil's.

Clint nodded – but that wasn't enough.

"Say it."

"I'll fight." Clint swore quietly, his voice a little more unsteady than it had been a few moments before.

Phil nodded and sniffed, wiping a hand across his face. He cleared his throat and blew out a breath. There was one more thing he needed to say before he turned the tables on Clint and made him face what had happened as well.

"What I haven't told you yet – and what I'm going to tell you now – is that I'm  _sorry_."

Clint immediately shook his head.

"Phil..."

Phil held up his hand to stop him.

"No. I'm  _SORRY_  – that I didn't trust your judgement, that I didn't back your play. I should have been the one you could count on without a doubt and I let you down. It will  _never_ happen again."

He watched Clint's breathing speed up, watched the archer swallow thickly. Phil waited until their eyes met again.

"Never again, Clint."

Clint nodded quickly – never doubting Phil's word. Phil nodded carefully in return – wishing his own faith in Clint had been as unwavering. Maybe they wouldn't be here right now if it had.

"I never should have doubted you. If you believe bringing her in was the right call – I can find a way to believe it too."

Clint's expression shifted slightly – as if he were still troubled despite the assurance.

"What is it?" Phil frowned in concern.

"I don't want you to 'find a way to believe it', Phil." Clint spoke very carefully, very precisely, every word packed with firm resolve. When his eyes clashed with Phil's, every bit of that resolve was written in his steely gaze.

"I don't understand." Phil's frown deepened, and his heart started pounding. He was struck with sudden fear that his forgiveness, his acceptance, had come too late. That Clint had decided not to care what he believed anymore.

The archer's eyes lost their razor's edge – softening with something like affection, though the resolve stayed just as strong – and Phil felt a little of that fear fade. All he could do was listen as Clint started to explain.

"When you found me, I didn't care about  _life_ ," Clint scoffed derisively at the reference to his former self. "Hell, Phil, I killed people for money. I hated myself, sure, but I still did it. I still took every payment without hesitation. I was nothing but darkness." Clint's lips quirked slightly, in a small smile that was almost wistful. "And then  _you_ found me and everything changed."

Phil watched Clint's eyes light with overwhelming gratitude.

"You reminded me what it meant to care about people again. To look at a mark and see not just a paycheck, but to see a person too. To see a  _life_  that should be valued and  _never_ taken lightly." Clint gave him a painfully confused look. "How the hell did you  _not_  expect this to happen one day – for me to look at a mark and  _not_ see what everyone else did? To see a life that I  _couldn't_  take instead?"

Phil felt like a freight train had just slammed into his chest. Found himself remembering a conversation months ago, where he'd been told something so similar it was almost uncanny.

" _You brought him here and reminded him that people matter. After everything he'd done – you had to know there would be backlash."_

Dan had seen then, what Phil hadn't been able to. What he was realizing now with startling clarity. Without realizing it, he'd set Clint on the course that brought them  _here_  – with a girl like Natasha Romanoff in their midst, and Clint taking punishment because he'd seen something in her nobody else could – maybe because nobody else had bothered to look.

"And you had to know – after everything I've done," Phil hated how Clint paused after that, how for a moment he could see the weight Clint carried because of what he'd done. But then Clint swallowed, literally squared his shoulders, and pushed on, "that I would never just  _kill_  anyone because I was told to."

Phil did know – had always known. It was that odd little moral demand – one of the few Clint had when it came to his job – that the archer held onto with more ferocity than Phil had ever expected. It was  _that_ insistence – to be shown all the evidence, to be given the choice to make his own call – that kept the darkness Clint had been drowning in when Phil found him at bay.

Honestly, in retrospect, Phil was a little surprised it had taken three years to become a serious issue.

He searched Clint's eyes, his own resolve hardening as he saw the confidence and openness shining back at him.

"And whatever you saw in her – it was enough?"

"Phil, I wouldn't have done all of this if it wasn't." Phil wasn't surprised by the fervor in Clint's tone.

He nodded.

"Okay. Then that can be enough for me. I trust your call, Clint. But you gotta understand, she's still gotta prove herself...to you, to me, and to SHIELD."

Clint nodded.

"I know, believe me. She did  _shoot_  me, Phil – not once, but twice. Worth saving or not, I'm still pretty pissed about that, and I trust her about as far as I can throw her."

Phil inclined his head in agreement. He wasn't really ready to trust her yet himself. It was nice to know Clint wasn't jumping in blindly either.

"But I  _do_  trust that she wants – that she  _needs_ – to be better. And I know she can do it if we give her half a chance."

Phil nodded.

"Okay. So we give her a chance and hope she proves you right."

Clint nodded once.

Phil cleared his throat.

"Now, we've dealt with me  _and_ with Romanoff...now it's time to deal with you."

Clint immediately looked away.

"No more hiding from it, kid. Face it head on like you do everything else. You know I won't leave you alone until you do."

Phil waited, and eventually Clint's gaze returned to his.

"Where exactly would you like me to start?"

There was anger in Clint's voice, but Phil expected that. Clint dealt with hurt in exactly one way – anger. And if the amount of anger the kid was projecting right now was a measure of that hurt – then this was worse than Phil expected.

"Should I start with the team of dead Afghan agents?" Clint's eyebrow arched in sarcastic curiosity. "Or we could start with the torture – because that,  _of course_ , I remember with near-perfect clarity." He gestured at his bruised and burned torso with his bandaged right hand. Phil frowned curiously when he saw the hand shaking – a physical tell that Clint would normally never let show, even in his condition. He snapped his eyes back up to Clint's – seeing something more there for just a moment before it disappeared as Clint went on. " _Or_ we could dive right in and talk about how I  _died_!"

Phil watched him thoughtfully for a moment.

"For starters, didn't you just get done telling _me_ that I  _wasn't_  too late – that you're still here? Or was that just a bunch of bullshit to make me feel better?"

"No." Clint defended. "But damn it, Phil..." he shook his head and looked away.

"It's not the same, I know." Phil allowed carefully. "But the point still stands. You did  _die_ , Clint." Clint's gaze cut to his sharply at the blunt statement. "And we  _both_  have to deal with that – but you  _are_  still here. That's what we have to focus on or we'll both go crazy."

Clint swallowed and kept his eyes on Phil's.

"How do I do that? How do I not think about it? Every time I breathe, I get reminded." He gestured in frustration at his deeply bruised chest and the ribs Phil knew he'd broken with CPR.

"It isn't going to be easy." Phil allowed. "But it'll get easier, for both of us – it has to."

"Why? Because it can't get any harder?" Clint shot back with a slightly sarcastic huff of a laugh.

Phil inclined his head and allowed himself a small smirk.

"Something like that." He grew serious again. "You're okay, Clint." He assured firmly. He watched Clint's eyes widen and the sarcasm fade out of his expression. "You're alive, you're breathing – and as long as you plan on staying consistent on both, all the other stuff will fade with time."

He saw Clint's jaw twitch and his eyes flash, no doubt remembering speaking very similar words to calm Phil down after he'd taken the bullet to his vest at the gala. He'd spoken like a bullet to the back wasn't anything but an annoyance. He'd been confident in his own strength to push past the injury and keep going.

He needed Clint to remember that strength now – to remember he  _was_  strong enough to keep going, to push past what had happened.

Before his eyes, he saw that strength return to Clint's gaze – saw him remember what Phil had always known. Clint was as strong and as tough as they came. His strength didn't come from those around him or from his situation – it came from somewhere deep inside him. His was a strength forged in fire and blood and it would not be easily broken.

Phil had never been more grateful for it than he was now. Because Clint was going to need that strength to face what was coming next.

"The Afghan team."

Phil waited for Clint to meet his gaze.

"What happened to them isn't on you."

"Oh no?" Clint scoffed.

"No. They knew what they were getting into – just like you do every time you got out on an assignment. They accepted that risk willingly."

"It's still a goddamned waste."

Phil's gaze hardened and his tone hardened with it.

"They were coming for  _you_  – so it was  _not_ a waste." Phil took a breath, forcing himself to calm down. He met Clint's eyes firmly. "It's men like you that keep this world from going to hell. And those men protecting you, they do it because you're one of the good guys – so it makes the being in danger part a lot easier."

Clint's eyes widened in shock.

"Sound familiar?"

Clint glared.

"It's not the same. Moreau and me – we aren't the same."

"No, you aren't – because his job puts him at risk once every now and then. Yours puts you at risk every day. And you accept that willingly – it's who you are. It's part of being SHIELD. So, no matter how it turned out, those men were willing to take that risk for you – a fellow SHIELD agent. You would do the  _same_ thing and you damn well know it."

He knew Clint couldn't deny that – saw the frustration blossom on Clint's face when he realized it too.

"Don't cheapen what they sacrificed by wallowing in guilt."

"Damnit, Phil! This isn't about guilt." Clint's eyes were suddenly lit up with fiery anger. Clint shook his head as if Phil just didn't  _get_ it. "Guilt means I had  _control_  – it means that I could have stopped them from dying. I  _don't_  feel guilty because  _trust_  me, I had no fucking control over  _anything_  in this entire clusterfuck of a situation."

Phil frowned at the sudden tremor in Clint's tone and he narrowed his eyes thoughtfully when he saw the same flash of  _something_  in Clint's eyes that he'd seen when Clint had talked about the torture.

What did control have to do with anything?

He'd never known Clint to completely lose control of any situation. Even captured and tortured, he always managed to gain a foothold of control, even if it was just spitting sarcasm. That had been taken away because he'd been gagged, but Clint had been gagged before – it had never affected him like this.

He thought back suddenly to Clint's shaking hand. To what he had sensed lurking behind the physical torture – something else that had happened to put that tremor in Clint's hand. To put the tremor that was now in his voice.

He realized he'd just run face first into that issue.

Somehow, they'd made Clint feel like he didn't have any control.

"How did they take your control, Clint?"

Clint pulled up short, caught off guard by the change of tracks – by the shift away from the Afghan team and onto him.

"What?"

"You were gagged, but that's never gotten to you like this."

Clint glared at him, angry all over again. But Phil could see the fear and the pain hidden beneath it.

"What am I missing, Clint?"

Clint scoffed angrily and waved his hand in frustration – as if the answer should have been obvious.

"The fucking bag, Phil."

Phil frowned.

"The bag?"

Then he remembered the bag he'd pulled off Clint's head when he found him. He'd thought it had just been part of the water torture and had forgotten it the moment he tossed it aside. Realization settled in heavily even as Clint replied.

"They gagged me and strapped the damn thing on the second they had me subdued. I couldn't say or see a damn thing the entire time."

Whether Clint realized he was allowing it or not – Phil could  _hear_  the lingering tension in his voice. Not being able to talk had just been part of it – that combined with not being able to  _see_...and Phil suddenly understood.

Clint had an amazing ability to remain almost inhumanly stoic even amidst horrible torture. It was a way of mentally protecting himself that also served to drive a torturer to distraction. But that stoicism hinged on being able to mentally prepare himself for what was about to happen.

Clint couldn't do that if he couldn't see what was coming.

 _That_  was a measure of control Clint had never had taken away. And they'd taken it with just a bag. Whether the bastards had known it or not, they couldn't have picked a more perfect psychological torture.

 _Jesus …_ Phil couldn't even imagine what that would have been like – especially given the nature of the torture methods they'd chosen. He was suddenly surprised Clint wasn't a quivering pile of frayed nerves.

"Clint…" But Phil realized he had no idea what to say.

"I couldn't handle it." He sounded so  _ashamed_  and Phil wanted to go kill the bastards all over again.

"Clint …  _no one_  could have handled that. Especially not without being trained to."

That was on  _him_. He should have prepared Clint for something like this.

"The fact that you kept it together  _at all_ means you didn't let them win. It means that you kept control whether you knew it or not."

Clint frowned and Phil could almost see the gears in his head turning.

"Did you scream?"

Clint frowned more deeply.

"No."

"Did you beg for them to stop?"

"No." A little more confidence leaked into Clint's tone.

"Did you give up?"

"No." Clint's tone was firm now and Phil knew he was realizing what Phil had. Just by fighting – by holding on until Phil got there – Clint had kept them from winning.

"You never lost control, kid."

He'd lost most of it – Phil couldn't argue with that. But when it came down to it, Clint's nature – his fighting nature – had kept him from losing all of it. It may not have been obvious to Clint or to the men that held him captive, but it was obvious to Phil.

Clint hadn't let them win.

He watched that realization sink in, watched Clint realize that even though it had been hell – he'd kept it  _mostly_  together. He'd kept fighting. He'd held onto the only control that ultimately mattered.

Clint clenched his jaw, his eyes shining a little brighter than usual.

"All I've ever asked is for you to do your best, to do your best – every second," he watched Clint's eyes light at the memory of that phrase, "of every day. You  _did_ – both in Uzbekistan  _and_  in Paris."

Clint chewed his lower lip and nodded. The archer lowered his eyes to his blanket again, and spoke unexpectedly.

"You know what made it worse?" Clint didn't give him a chance to guess before he continued. "They never even asked me anything. It was only about pain. Even if I  _would've,_  I _couldn't_  give them anything to make them stop because they didn't want anything from me. What the hell is that about? Why didn't they just kill me?"

"I don't know, kid." Phil sighed. "But I'm glad they didn't."

Because they  _could_  have – easily. Phil didn't even want to think about that scenario.

"Look," Phil waited until Clint looked at him, "All we know is that they were Germans in a supposedly abandoned Uzbek compound, which means…"

"Mercenaries." Clint realized suddenly.

Phil nodded.

"We have no idea what they were doing there, or what you stumbled on. We may never know. But they're all dead – and you're alive. And as far as I'm concerned for now, that's all that matters."

Clint nodded slowly, still looking troubled.

They didn't have all the answers Clint – or Phil – wanted. But Phil knew they just had to let it go. Everyone was alive – and as meager of a win as that seemed at the moment – it was still a win.

That would have to be enough for now.

* * *

_Three Days Later..._

* * *

Clint tilted his head curiously and watched Romanoff jog back to the start of the parkour course. She was the only one out there at the moment. Her training class had dispersed more than fifteen minutes ago. But she'd stayed – and kept running the course over and over.

He brought his blue Gatorade to his lips and took a sip, absently tapping his bare heels against the brick as he sat on the edge of the roof with his legs dangling over the edge.

He figured he had at least three or four more minutes before someone realized he was missing from his bed in the infirmary. At least five more before someone – probably Phil or Wilson – found him.

Some sort of scolding was sure to follow as they escorted him back to the infirmary. But they all knew it wouldn't mean anything – Clint would be a good boy for a few hours and this whole process would start again.

He smirked and sipped his Gatorade again.

He sensed a presence approaching behind him and took a mental bet with himself that it'd be Phil.

"Isn't your ass supposed to be in the infirmary, Barton?"

Clint shifted so he could look behind him without pulling at his ribs.

"Bryan?"

"The one and only." Todd Bryan smirked and moved to sit on the roof next to him. "Expecting someone else?"

Clint glanced back at the door – expecting to see Phil or Wilson storm through suddenly. When neither appeared, he shifted back so he was facing the parkour course again.

"What brings you up to my neck of the woods?" Clint asked as he took a long draw from his Gatorade and watched Romanoff roll across the finish line. She immediately came to her feet and started back to the front of the course.

"Saw you watching – hadn't gotten to talk to you since all the shit went down. Thought I'd sneak up before they carted you back to the infirmary."

Clint nodded.

"Fair – I've been meaning to thank you anyway. For helping Phil haul my ass out of Uzbekistan."

Bryan's expression grew troubled, but he nodded.

"No thanks required, kid. Nowhere else I'd rather have been in a situation like that. I'm glad Phil let me come."

Clint watched him closely for a moment and then looked back at the parkour course, taking a sip of his Gatorade.

"Guess you were there, huh?" he commented casually. "When Phil pulled me back from the brink." He shifted his eyes to watch Bryan's reaction.

As he expected, the man's dark skin paled slightly and his eyes darkened.

"Yeah, I guess I was."

Bryan swallowed thickly and looked away.

Clint lowered his drink, cradling the plastic bottle in his lap with his left hand. He sighed and turned his head to face Bryan.

"Thank you for being there – for going with him. There's no one I'd trust more to have his six."

Bryan nodded. Clint rubbed at the skin under the now bandage-less gash on his cheekbone – stitched and healing quickly. Wilson didn't even think it would scar.

"I know it probably wasn't easy – being there."

Bryan glanced at him and swallowed.

"I just want you to know I appreciate it."

Bryan shrugged in a poor attempt at nonchalance.

"Phil had the hard part."

Clint inclined his head slightly with a shrug.

"Maybe. But I think having to stand guard at the door –  _not_  being able to help – that would have been harder for me." Clint shrugged again. "But that's just me."

He saw Bryan's jaw clench and knew he'd hit the mark.

"Maybe not just you." Bryan sighed. "You can make it up to me but not  _ever_  being in that situation again, okay?"

Clint raised his drink to his mouth again and remained silent. He wouldn't make a promise he couldn't keep, not even for Bryan's peace of mind. He heard the trainer sigh.

"Yeah, I didn't figure that'd work."

They both watched Romanoff run the course in silence for a moment.

"Look, kid, this whole shit storm was hard one everyone involved." He gave Clint a meaningful look. " _Present_ company included."

Clint shrugged slightly and didn't try to deny it.

"I'll be okay, Barton. It was rough, but I'll deal. You worry about yourself, okay? And not just the physical stuff. Give yourself time to heal up here too." He jabbed a finger gently against Clint's temple. "Everybody knows you're the toughest shit there is. You don't have to prove anything to anybody. So cut yourself a break and take your time healing up for once."

Clint smirked. Sometimes he forgot how well Bryan knew him. He tipped his drink towards Romanoff, who had just started the course for the umpteenth time.

"So how's she looking?"

Bryan rolled his eyes, but didn't fight the subject change.

"She's good –  _really_ good. Maybe even better than you were."

Clint chuckled.

"Oh, I know she's better than I was – you don't have to pussyfoot around that."

"I think you made a good call, bringing her in. She's a good fit here. Well…" Bryan made a wry face. "She's a good fit here like  _you're_ a good fit here. So take that for what it is."

Clint barked a short laugh.

"You should really get back to the infirmary before they come looking. I'll cover you if someone comes asking."

Clint nodded and mentally prepared himself for the arduous task of standing. As if reading his mind, Bryan suddenly climbed to his feet and held out a hand.

Clint weighed his options quickly. Accept the help and admit his weakness or refuse it and risk falling off the roof.

He reached up and grasped Bryan's hand tightly. Through a joint effort, Clint was on his feet a moment later. Bryan released his hand and stepped back with a chuckle.

"Is there a reason you aren't wearing any shoes?"

Clint shrugged, brushing off his blue scrub pants with his free hand. He smoothed his plain white t-shirt next as he responded.

"Couldn't ask for any, or I'd give away my escape plan."

"When you've been in the infirmary enough times to have an 'escape plan,' you should really start reconsidering your lifestyle." Bryan teased.

Clint tilted his head in acquiescence and took one last look out at where Romanoff was training.

"You know I haven't had a chance to say this yet, or I would have already…"

Clint turned back Bryan curiously.

"I'm sorry I gave you shit about bringing in Romanoff. You didn't deserve that."

"Don't sweat it, Bryan. I probably  _deserved_  a lot worse."

Bryan caught his arm as he tried to turn away.

"No – you didn't."

Clint's smirk faded as the serious intensity in Bryan's eyes sank in.

"If there's anyone around here whose instincts have never been wrong, it's you. I should have trusted you, we all should have."

Clint dipped his head once in acceptance.

"Thanks for saying that."

Bryan nodded in response.

"Now go – I spent too many bullets saving your ass to have Phil or Dan kill you now."

Clint obediently moved back towards the door. He heard someone coming up just as he reached it and stepped quickly to the side. The door swung open and Clint hid himself behind it – watching Wilson storm out on to the roof.

"Todd? You seen Barton? He's MIA from the infirmary  _again_. Phil's about ready to tie him down – and so am I."

Clint met Todd's eyes across the expanse, wondering if the trainer would give him away.

"No, haven't seen him."

Clint smirked and silently slid back through the door and started down the stairs. He had to bite back laughter as he heard Wilson's response and Todd's subsequent reply.

"Then what the hell are you doing on the roof?"

"What? Are you the roof police?"

Clint couldn't hold back a slight snicker as he rounded the flight and slid out onto the first available floor.

Let the chase begin.

* * *

Natasha slid silently out onto the roof, easing the door shut just as silently. She had hoped that tonight would be one where she got some sleep. It had been a good day. She'd kicked the ass of some jerk named Jared Matthews in sparring – kicked it so bad he'd been out of training for the rest of the day. And she'd heard Barton was released from the infirmary –  _finally_. After a week and a half of recovery from whatever had happened on his doomed mission two weeks ago.

But sleep hadn't come – no matter how long she laid in her bunk. So she'd eventually given up and decided to roam. She wasn't sure what led her to the roof – he'd only come here a handful of times. But now that she was up here, inhaling the cool night air, it felt good, relaxing in a way.

She didn't realize she wasn't alone until she rounded the corner and saw none other than Clint Barton himself already perched on the ledge. She tried to turn around, but he was already turning in her direction.

"Romanoff?"

She turned back and met his eyes.

"Barton."

"I'd heard you've been stealing my spot. I figured I'd restake my claim."

She almost defended herself, snapped that the roof wasn't his to claim – but then she saw something in his eyes – something that looked an awful lot like amusement. A smirk twitched on his lips.

He was joking.

People didn't joke with her. She couldn't remember the last time anyone had even smiled at her outside of a mission. For a moment, she didn't know what to do. Before she figured it out, Barton rolled his eyes.

"Jeez – relax, Romanoff. You can have any other spot you want."

She didn't move. She hadn't come up here for company, and still didn't particularly want it now that it was here.

He rolled his eyes again and carefully pushed himself to his feet. She nearly winced right along with him when it seemed he tweaked his healing ribs.

"You can retract the claws, I'll go. I wasn't planning on staying after you got here anyway."

"You knew I was coming?" She accused sharply, wondering suddenly if he'd been spying on her.

"Call it a gut feeling." He moved to stand in front of her – staying carefully out of her personal space and eyeing her critically. "I'm not so far removed from where you are that I've forgotten what it's like to be the new, scary kid on the block. I still come up here to clear my head."

She frowned at him, wondering why he was telling her any of this.

"Don't worry," he smirked again. And again she was struck with how at home the expression looked on his face. "I'll share."

She stepped to the side, clearly giving him a path towards the door – a blatant hint that she was ready for him to leave her alone.

"Wow, okay, I can take a hint. But before I leave you to your brooding, there's a reason I came up here." He reached into his left cargo pocket, extracting a thick, rolled file. He unrolled it, tried unsuccessfully to make it lay flat, and then just shrugged and held the curved papers out to her.

"What's that?" She demanded, eyeing the file curiously.

"It's a file."

She glared. He smirked. Then the smirk faded and his expression grew serious.

"It's a file on a man named Henri Moreau. Sound familiar?"

Natasha felt her heart speed up, her eyes cutting sharply to the file then back to Barton's face.

"Take it." He urged.

She didn't move.

"Why?"

His gaze was so heavy she imagined she could feel its weight – could feel it seeing deep into her soul. It took everything she had not to look away.

"Because you should know the man you tried to kill." If possible, his expression grew more intense. "And the man I would have died to protect."

Natasha stared at him – and knew in that moment – that he would have done just that. Died to save Moreau. Just like he had risked everything for her.

She was beginning to realize, that was just who Barton was.

"Take it." This time it was more of an order, less of a suggestion.

Without her consent, her hand reached to take the file.

Barton stepped past her without another word, heading for the door.

"Barton."

She turned and watched him pause, turning back to face her.

"What if I don't want to know?"

His lips curved into a sad smile.

"You don't get that luxury anymore."

Then he slid through the door and she was alone. She slowly moved to the spot he'd vacated and eased herself down, weighing the file in her hands. For a long time, she just stared at the name printed in the top corner.

_Moreau, Henri_

Then she opened it and started to read.

* * *

Clint glanced up from the book he was reading –  _Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince_  – when a knock came at his door. Phil was making a pizza run in the city and wouldn't be back for at least twenty minutes. Wilson had finally stopped checking on him every hour and Bryan was running a night training session.

With a muffled groan, he eased his way off his bed and shuffled to the door. The day he didn't feel like a ninety-year-old man with arthritis couldn't come soon enough. He hated broken ribs.

He finally reached the door and pulled it open just as his guest started knocking again.

He blinked dumbly.

"Fury?"

The director's eyebrow arched.

"I'm pretty sure there should be a 'Director' or something in there."

Clint ignored the comment and just stared at him for a moment.

"Since when do you make house calls?"

"Since I  _own_  the house, Barton." Fury glanced down at the book in Clint's hand, and Clint swore he saw amusement in the man's eye when he raised it again. "You have a moment to spare in your hectic schedule?"

Clint rolled his eyes and stepped back into the room to allow Fury entrance.

"I think I can fit you in."

Fury stepped over the threshold and glanced around the room briefly before settling his gaze on Clint.

"I'll be brief." The Director eyed him seriously. "You're still on my shit list, Barton."

"You came all the way down here to tell me that. I'm touched."

"Stow the bullshit and just listen."

Clint closed his mouth and held up a hand in surrender.

"As I said – you're still on my shit list. And I'm still pissed as hell at you for pulling the stunt you did with Romanoff. That being said – you can't go off and almost get yourself killed every time you piss everybody off."

Clint blinked. Fury was coming dangerously close to admitting he cared. The director's gaze grew serious and Clint decided it'd be wise to keep his mouth shut until the man was done.

"I may have saved your ass from the Council, but you have a long way to go before you earn my trust again. So you can rest assured that your list of upcoming assignments will be the most tedious and boring of your career. Call it probation."

Clint resisted the urge to release his most put-upon sigh. Instead, he just nodded – and rolled his eyes as subtly as he could.

He knew the director saw – nothing ever seemed to get by the man – but instead of reaming him, Fury's lips just quirked slightly. Then he nodded once in return and headed for the door.

He turned back once he reached it and folded his hands behind his back.

"I also thought you should know. We got confirmation that the hit on Moreau has been cancelled. The issue before the Security Council has been resolved. Moreau is safe."

Clint nodded slowly, relief washing through him. Moreau was safe. This whole mess was finally over.

"Thank you."

Fury nodded and turned back to the door.

Clint hesitated for a moment and then spoke.

"I know you sent a team for me – even though it's against protocol."

Fury didn't turn, stayed with his hand on the door knob.

"I wasn't about to let a group of mercs kill you before I had my chance to do so myself."

Clint smirked. Fury  _totally_ cared.

"Don't worry,  _sir_ ," he threw as much sarcasm as he could muster into the term. "I won't tell anyone you care."

Fury pulled the door open and stepped into the hallway, not deigning to dignify that with a response. Clint moved to the door and called after him.

"Cat's out of the bag, Fury. You're a big, fluffy,  _caring_  teddy bear!"

He thought he heard Fury respond as he closed his door.

"Who are you calling  _fluffy?_ "

Clint smiled and moved back to his bed. He'd probably pay for that in some form, but he couldn't quite bring himself to care.

* * *

Natasha stalked into the training room – the smallest of the three housed in the base – and glared two of the three men present out of the room. The third man was her target.

Barton was attacking a punching bag with impressive ferocity, given the ribs she knew were still healing. He had headphones snaking up to both of his ears and she assumed that was the only reason he didn't seem to notice her approach.

She saw the moment he sensed a new presence in the room. He stiffened and turned immediately to face her. She used that opportunity to slam the Moreau file against his chest.

He grunted, caught the file against his chest, and showed no sign of pain except for a ticking in his jaw. And she knew it  _had_ to hurt. His ribs  _were_ still broken. It just aggravated her further that he seemed unaffected.

"Why did you give me this?"

Barton glanced around the training gym, no doubt searching for credible witnesses, and slowly reached to pull the headphones from his ears.

"I told you why."

"I didn't want to know any of this. I  _never_  wanted to know any of this." She shoved her hand against the file and sent him back a step. Barton's eyes suddenly lit up with fire and he shoved the file back at her.

"Tough shit, Romanoff. Now you know. You know that you almost killed a  _good_ man. A man that never hurt anyone – never deserved  _you_  or anyone else being sent after him."

"Why did you give me this?" She demanded again, her fists clenched around the file. She didn't know if she wanted to rip the thing in half or beat him with it. The latter option was looking more and more appealing.

Barton pinned her with that penetrating glare of his – the one that made her want to look away before he was able to see her soul. When he spoke, his tone was low and dangerous, making her remember she wasn't the only deadly one in the room.

"Because it's time for you to  _wake up_. You don't get to live in that blissful little thing called ignorance anymore. You need to own up to what you were – deal with the fact that it was _wrong_."

Natasha stepped back as if he'd struck her.

"Because until you face that, you won't be able to do what you need to do here."

She looked down at the file in her hands. She could see, in her mind's eye, the words that were written inside. Words telling her about a man who had done nothing but good in his life. A man who, from the beginning of his political career, had spoken up for those who couldn't speak for themselves. A man who had never been afraid to make the hard choice – even when no one around him had the nerve.

And she'd tried to kill him.

She raised her glare to Barton, who was watching her knowingly.

"That's what guilt feels like."

She hated him in that moment – for reading her mind, for giving her the file, for introducing her to 'guilt.' She'd never felt any emotion concerning her job before – and she liked it better that way.

"I don't want this."

She pushed the file back against his chest – and pushed with it the guilt that was swirling through her. He pushed it right back.

"Well, suck it up, Romanoff, because that's just too damn bad. Guilt is the job – doing what we do, the guilt – the  _feeling_  – that's what makes us different from the people we hunt. Feeling is what makes us human beings – it's what makes us the good guys."

He stepped around her and towards the exit. She turned to watch him go, feeling the weight of the file in her hands. He turned back as he reached the door, walked backwards as he left her with one parting comment.

"Welcome to the human race, Romanoff. No returns, no exchanges. Comes complete with feelings and emotions – the good and the bad." He paused at the door. "You told me I wasn't wrong."

She froze. He'd been awake when she visited him. He'd heard her. She wasn't sure if she was furious … or relieved. She raised her eyes to his as he reached behind him to push the door open.

"Prove it."

And then he was gone and the door was swinging closed in his wake.

Natasha wasn't sure how long she stood in the middle of the empty training room. She wasn't sure when she'd gone from barely gripping the file to having her arms wrapped around it, hugging it to her torso.

She didn't know how to do feelings. All traces of emotion had been drilled out of her when she was just a child. Or at least she'd thought they were drilled out – thought they were gone forever.

But as she stood there, she knew that wasn't so – because she sure as hell felt something now. She felt overwhelming guilt – not just for Moreau – but for the dozens before him. For faces she'd thought she'd forgotten. Names she'd thought she'd erased from her memory.

She had red in her ledger – so much so that it was dripping with the blood of her victims.

But Barton had said there was good too. And she realized with sudden clarity what that good was for her right now.

It was hope.

Hope that one day, she'd wipe that ledger clean.

* * *

Clint frowned at the target down the range. It wasn't nearly at the distance he was used to practicing at, but he was exhausted. So exhausted that on his last draw, his arms had started shaking. He was so sick of 'recovering'. He'd had his fill after Croatia.

Thankfully, Wilson assured him that his recovery from Uzbekistan wouldn't take nearly as long. Although Clint was already reaching the limit of his patience at three weeks. Three weeks since Phil had pulled him from that cell. Four since he'd made the decision to defy what apparently amounted to 'the entire universe' and let Natasha Romanoff live.

Clint sighed and drew another arrow.

Wilson was clearing him back to duty next week and Clint would start the first of several boring assignments that Fury had hand selected.

The Moroccan dessert was his first stop. A three-week solo distance surveillance mission – distance meaning he sat in a hovel dug out of the sand and watched live surveillance feeds of a compound ten miles away.

He was bursting with enthusiasm.

He loosed the arrow and frowned when it hit the bottom quadrant of the bullseye.

"Fury tells me you've added to the reasons you're on his shit list."

Clint turned to watch Phil join him in the otherwise empty range. There had been a handful of agents practicing when Clint arrived. It hadn't taken long for Clint to 'convince' them to move along.

"That depends," Clint smirked, "has his Teddygram arrived yet?"

"That depends," Phil replied with a matching smirk. "Was it a black teddy bear with a leather trench coat and an eye patch?"

Clint grinned.

"I'm fairly certain I saw it meeting an untimely demise by blow torch."

Clint barked a laugh.

"Blow torch? A little extreme."

"Something I missed?" Phil asked curiously as he set a small package on the table next to Clint.

"Nothing much – just Fury acting like big, fluffy teddy bear. I just wanted to honor the moment with a memento."

"He said he was going to add a new level to his shit list, just for you."

Clint put his hand over his heart.

"I'm touched."

Phil rolled his eyes and nudged the package towards him.

"Mail call."

"That's for me?"

"Considering you seemed to have managed to rid the range of any other occupants – yes, it's for you."

Clint pulled the package over and looked for a sender address, but none was listed. He shot Phil a wary glance.

"I've already had it scanned. You're good to open it."

Clint reached to his back and pulled his knife, slicing into the packing tape quickly and cleanly.

The box contained exactly two things. A book and a folded piece of paper.

Clint pulled the paper out first and opened it.

* * *

_Monsieur Barton,_

_I hope this note reaches you well. Finding a way to reach you was somewhat of a challenge, but I'm proud to say I was victorious. I'm sure my methods have sparked your curiosity, but I cannot reveal my sources. You are not the only one who can operate with "subtlety."_

_You have my continuing gratitude for all that you and your associate did for me while you were in Paris. For such reason, if you should ever find yourself in my city again, please know that you are welcome in my home at any time. I should very much like to debate local cuisine with you once again._

_You'll find in this box a book. I sent it because it reminded me strongly of…you. I hope you take the time to read it as you will, I think, rather like the leading character._

_I hope you are well, Monsieur Barton. I thank you again and I wish you safe keeping in all that you must do…and perhaps should I also say…happy hunting._

_Votre ami,_

_Henri_

* * *

_Votre ami…_ your friend. Clint couldn't help but stare at the note and ended up reading it through again.

He wasn't sure why he was surprised – Moreau had been dogging him for friendship from day one. Clint realized now – for the first time – that he'd considered Moreau a friend all along. No matter how much he'd teased the man and played at keeping everything painfully professional.

The last friend he'd had outside of Phil, Wilson, and Bryan had been in his circus days.

The realization that he'd added one to that number was…heartening.

He looked at Phil. His handler looked torn between worry and curiosity.

"You okay?"

Clint nodded and wordlessly handed the note to Phil. The handler took it as Clint pulled the book out of the box.

"Take a Thief" by Mercedes Lackey

He turned the book over, lips curving into a grin as he read the summary.

"Looks like you made a friend." Phil was smiling as he handed the note back. Clint folded it and stuck it in the front cover of the book.

"I guess I won't be telling him I recruited his would-be assassin into SHIELD." He was only half joking. He couldn't imagine ever trying to explain that to Moreau.

Phil shook his head and smiled slightly.

"I wouldn't."

Clint looked down at the book again, a smile finding its way to his lips. At least he'd have something new to read in Morocco. He couldn't remember the last time someone outside of Brit and Kara, and more recently Phil, had given him a gift – much less one that fit him so well.

He found himself suddenly hoping that the next time he went to Paris – because he  _knew_ his job would take him there again – he'd be able to stop by and pay his friend a visit. If for nothing else than to tell him what he told all of his friends when they tried to thank him for doing something that was just his nature – just a product of that friendship…

No thanks required.

"Come on," Phil drew his attention. "Romanoff is getting ready to hit the sparring mat with the other recruits, should be entertaining. If she's as good as you and Todd claim, they're talking of pulling her from general training as soon as she passes her testing tomorrow."

"No shit?" Clint laughed as they headed out of the range. Then he thought about it. It probably  _was_ the safest move for all parties involved. "Who's she gonna train with? You?" He teased.

"Actually," Phil tossed him a serious glance, "my suggestion to Fury was you. When you're on base, at least."

Clint blinked.

"No  _shit?_ "

"You're the one that brought her here," Phil smirked somewhat deviously making Clint's eyes narrow. "You might as well be the one she beats up on."

Clint knew in his head that it was more likely because he was the only one on base that stood a chance against her. He scowled anyway.

"Thanks, Phil. You're all heart."

* * *

End of What No One Else Sees

 **Kylen**  totally gave me the idea for the Teddygram when she saw I had Clint calling Fury a teddy bear lol :)

That was my longest story yet - and it was a wild ride for both you guys and me :) Thank you so much for sticking with me :) 

Next multi-chap fic in the Vantage Point Universe is... (drumroll)

* * *

**_"New York"_ **

_They never thought they'd fight the battle where they lived - but then an attack on the New York SHIELD base brings the fight home when old hatreds come to light. Sequel to Budapest._


End file.
